THE  FLAiA 
-OF  LIFE 


U'i 


DANNUNZIO 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,   Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

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THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 


The  Works  jf 

GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO 


THE  CHILD  OF  PLEASURE 

(II  Piacere) 

THE   INTRUDERj 

(L'lnnocente) 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH 

(II  Trionfo  della  cJMorte) 

THE  MAIDENS  OF  THE  ROCKS 

(Le  Vereini  delle  Rocce) 

THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

(U   Fuoco) 

Each   one    volume,  library  lamo,  cloth. 
Per  volume,  $1.50 


L.   C.    PAGE    ca.    COMPANY 
53  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


t 


The  ROMANCES  OF  THE  POMEGRANATE 


THE    FLAME 
OF    LIFE 

By  GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 

Author  of  "The  Triumph  or  Death,"  etc 

TranHated  by 

KASSANDRA   VIVARIA 

Author  of  "  Via  Lucis,"  etc. 
...  fa  come  natura  face  in  poco.  —  Dante 


BOSTON 

L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY  (Incorporated) 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  igoo. 

By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 
(incorpoeaied) 

A!l  rights  reserved 


Fifth  Impression,  April,  1909 
Sixth  Impression,  September,  1911 
Seventh  Impression,  January,  1914 


THE    COIX)NIA.Ii  PRESS 
C.  H.   8IMOND8   &   CO.,    BOSTON,    U.  S.  A. 


Annex 

4X05 


TO    TIME  and    TO   HOPE 

Without  Hope  it  is  imposable  to  find  the  unhoped  for. — Heraclitut 

of  Ephesus. 
He  who  sings  to    the   god    a   song  of  Hope   shall   see   his   wish 

accomplished.  —  ^tchylut  of  Eleusis. 
Time  is  the  Father  of  Miracles.  —  Hariri  of  Basra, 


CONTENTS 


*•  PACK 

The  Epiphany  of  the  Flame i 

II. 

The  Empire  of  Silence      ....,,,     157 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME 


The  Flame  of  Life 
I 

THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME 


"  Stelio,  does  not  your  heart  fail  you  for  the  first 
time?  "  La  Foscarina  asked  with  a  slight  smile,  touch- 
ing the  hand  of  the  silent  friend  sitting  beside  her. 
"  I  see  you  are  a  little  pale,  and  you  seem  preoccu- 
pied. Yet  this  is  a  beautiful  night  for  the  triumph  of 
a  great  poet !  " 

She  gathered  into  one  deeply  conscious  glance  all 
the  beauty  scattered  so  divinely  through  that  last  hour 
of  the  September  twilight.  In  the  dark,  living  firma- 
ment of  her  eyes  the  neighbouring  garlands  of  light, 
created  by  the  oar  as  it  dipped  in  the  water,  seemed 
to  encircle  the  fiery  angels  that  shone  from  afar  on  the 
towers  of  San  Marco  and  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore. 

"  As  ever,"  she  added  in  her  sweetest  voice,  —  "  as 
ever,  all  things  are  favourable  to  you.  On  an  even- 
ing like  this  what  soul  could  remain  closed  to  the 
dreams  that  it  shall  please  your  words  to  bring  forth? 
Do  not  you  feel  already  that  the  crowd  is  eager  to 
welcome  your  revelation?  " 

Thus,  delicately,  she  soothed  her  friend,  wrapping 
him  round  with  continual  praise,  exalting  him  with 
continual  hope. 

I 


2  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  No  more  unusual  and  no  more  magnificent  festi- 
val could  have  been  imagined  for  the  purpose  of  en- 
ticing from  his  ivory  tower  a  disdainful  poet  such  as 
you  are.  This  joy,  of  entering  for  the  first  time  into 
communion  with  a  multitude  in  a  sovereign  place 
such  as  the  Hall  of  the  Greater  Council,  was  reserved 
for  you  alone.  You  will  speak  from  the  throne 
whence  once  the  Doges  addressed  the  assembled  pa- 
tricians ;  their  background  the  Paradiso  of  Tintoretto, 
and  over  their  heads  the  Gloria  of  Paolo  Veronese." 

Stelio  Efifrena  looked  her  deep  in  the  eyes. 

"Do  you  wish  to  intoxicate  me?"  he  said,  with 
sudden  gaiety.  "  This  that  you  are  offering  me  is  the 
cup  you  would  place  before  one  going  to  the  scaffold. 
Well,  then,  yes,  my  friend,  I  confess  that  my  heart 
does  shrink  a  little." 

A  sound  of  applause  burst  from  the  Passage  of  San 
Gregorio,  echoing  along  the  Grand  Canal,  re-echoing 
in  the  precious  discs  of  porphyry  and  serpentine 
adorning  the  house  of  the  Darios,  that  stooped  under 
their  weight  like  a  decrepit  courtesan  under  the  pomp 
of  her  jewels. 

The  royal  barge  was  passing. 

"  Here  is  the  one  among  your  listeners  whom  the 
ceremony  bids  you  crown  with  some  flower  of  your 
speech  in  the  preamble,"  said  the  woman,  allud- 
ing to  the  Queen.  "  In  one  of  your  first  books,  I  be- 
lieve, you  confess  your  taste  and  your  respect  for 
ceremonials.  One  of  your  most  extraordinary  feats 
of  imagination  is  that  which  has  for  its  motive  the 
description  of  a  day  of  Charles  II.  of  Spain." 

The  two  occupants  of  the  gondola  saluted  the  barge 
as  it  passed  them.      The  Queen,  blonde,  rosy,  illu- 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME         3 

mined  by  the  freshness  of  the  inexhaustible  smile  that 
was  for  ever  rippling  among  the  pale  meshes  of  her 
Buranese  laces,  looked  back,  moved  by  an  impulse  of 
spontaneous  curiosity,  as  she  recognized  the  poet  of 
Persephone  and  the  great  tragic  actress.  By  her  side 
was  Andriana  Duodo,  the  patroness  of  Burano,  the 
industrious  little  island  where  she  cultivated  a  dainty 
garden  of  thread  for  the  marvellous  renewing  of 
antique  flowers. 

"Don't  you  think,  Stelio,  that  those  two  women 
have  twin  smiles?"  La  Foscarina  said,  watching  the 
water  gurgle  in  the  furrow  left  by  the  receding  gon- 
dola, where  the  reflection  of  that  double  glamour 
seemed  to  prolong  itself. 

"  The  Countess  is  a  magnificent  and  ingenious 
spirit,  one  of  those  rare  Venetian  souls  that  have  re- 
mained strongly  coloured  like  their  ancient  can- 
vases," said  Stelio,  with  grateful  remembrance.  "  I 
have  a  deep  devotion  for  her  sensitive  hands.  They 
are  hands  that  tremble  with  joy  when  they  touch  beau- 
tiful lace  or  velvet,  and  linger  there  with  a  grace  that 
seems  half  shy  of  being  so  languid.  One  day,  as  I 
was  taking  her  through  the  halls  of  the  Academia, 
she  stopped  before  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents^ 
by  the  first  Bonifazio  (you  certainly  remember  the 
green  of  the  prostrate  woman  that  the  soldier  of 
Herod  is  about  to  strike:  it  is  a  note  you  cannot 
forget).  She  remained  standing  there  a  long  time, 
the  joy  of  full  and  perfect  sensation  difl"used  all  over 
her.  Then  she  said,  'Take  me  away,  Eff"rena,  I  must 
leave  my  eyes  behind  on  that  dress,  I  want  to  see 
nothing  else.'  Ah,  dear  friend,  don't  smile,  she 
was  simple  and  sincere  in  saying  this.    She  had  in  all 


4  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

truth  left  her  eyes  behind  on  that  fragment  of  canvas 
which  art,  with  a  Httle  colour,  has  made  the  centre 
of  an  indefinitely  joyous  mystery.     In  all  truth,  it 
was   a   blind   woman   that   I   was   leading.      And    I 
was  all  reverence  for  that  privileged  soul,  in  which 
the  spell  of  colour  had  had  the  power  to  abolish  for 
a  time  every  vestige  of  its  ordinary  life  and  to  stop 
all  other  communications  from  the  outside.     What 
would  you  call   this?      A  filling  up  of  the  chalice 
to  the  brim,  it  seems  to  me.     This,  for  instance,  is 
what  I  would  do  to-night,  if  I  were  not  discouraged." 
A   fresh  clamour,  louder  and    longer,   rose   from 
between  the  two  watchful  columns  of  granite,  as  the 
barge  came  to  shore  by  the  crowded  Piazzetta.     A 
confused  roar,  like  the  imaginary  rushing  that  ani- 
mates the  spirals  of  some  sea-shells,  filled  the  open 
spaces  of  the  ducal  balconies  at  the  surging  of  the 
dense,  dark  multitude.      Then,  suddenly,  the  shout 
rose  higher  in  the  limpid  air,  breaking  up  against 
the   slim   forest  of  the   marbles,  vaulting   over   the 
brow   of    the   taller   statues,    shooting    beyond    the 
pinnacles  and  the  crosses,  dispersing  in  the  far  dis- 
tances of  twilight.      The  manifold  harmonies  of  the 
sacred  and  pagan  architectures  all  over  which  the 
Ionic  modulations  of  the  Biblioteca  ran  like  an  agile 
melody,  continued  unbroken  in  the  pause  which  again 
followed,  and  the  summit  of  the  naked  tower  rose  like 
a  mystic  cry.     And  that  silent  music  of  motionless 
lines  was  so  powerful,  in  its  contrast  with  the  spec- 
tacle of  an  anxious  multitude,  that  it  created   almost 
visibly  the  phantom  of  some  richer  and  more  beauti- 
ful  life.      That  multitude,  too,  seemed    to    feel    the 
divinity   of  the   hour,  and    in   the    greeting   it    sent 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME         5 

up  to  the  modern  symbol  of  royalty  stepping  on 
its  ancient  landing-place,  the  fair  Queen  beaming 
with  her  inextinguishable  smile,  perhaps  it  exhaled 
its  obscure  aspiration  to  transcend  the  narrowness  of 
its  daily  life  and  to  reap  the  harvest  of  eternal  poetry 
growing  over  its  stones  and  its  waters.  In  those 
men,  oppressed  by  the  tedium  and  labour  of  their 
long  mediocrity,  the  strong  covetous  souls  of  their 
forefathers,  who  had  applauded  so  many  returning 
conquerors  of  the  sea,  seemed  to  be  waking  up  con- 
fusedly, and  as  they  woke  they  seemed  to  remember 
the  rush  of  the  air,  stirred  by  the  hissing,  implacable 
banners  of  old  that  had  shamed  enemies  without 
number  as  they  dropped  to  rest,  refolding  like  the 
great  wings  of  victory. 

"  Do  you  know,  Perdita,"  suddenly  asked  Stelio,  — 
"  do  you  know  of  any  other  place  in  the  world  like 
Venice,  in  its  power  of  stimulating  at  certain  mo- 
ments all  the  powers  of  human  life,  and  of  exciting 
every  desire  to  the  point  of  fever?  Do  you  know  of 
any  more  terrible  temptress?" 

The  woman  he  called  Perdita  did  not  answer,  her 
head  bent  as  if  in  greater  concentration,  but  in  all 
her  nerves  she  felt  that  indefinable  quiver  that  the 
voice  of  her  friend  always  called  up  when  it  un- 
expectedly revealed  the  vehement  and  passionate 
soul  to  which  she  was  drawn  by  limitless  love  and 
terror. 

"  Peace  !  oblivion  !  Do  you  ever  find  them  down 
there,  at  the  end  of  your  deserted  canal,  when  you 
return  home  parched  and  exhausted  from  having 
breathed  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre  —  of  the 
theatre  that  any  gesture  of  yours  lashes  to  frenzied 


6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

enthusiasm?  For  my  part,  I  can  never  find  myself 
on  these  dead  waters  without  feeling  that  my  life  is 
being  multiplied  at  a  bewildering  speed,  and  at  times 
my  thoughts  seem  to  take  fire  as  if  delirium  were 
imminent." 

"The  flame  and  the  strength  are  in  yourself, 
Stelio,"  said  the  woman,  without  raising  her  eyes, 
almost  humbly. 

He  was  silent,  intent.  Images  and  impetuous 
music  were  being  generated  within  him,  as  if  by 
the  magic  of  some  instantaneous  fertilisation.  And 
the  unexpected  flood  of  that  abundance  was  filling  his 
spirit  with  joy. 

It  was  still  the  hour  that  in  one  of  his  books  he 
had  called  "  Titian's  hour,"  because  in  it  all  things 
seemed,  like  that  painter's  nude  creations,  to  shine 
with  a  rich  glow  of  their  own,  and  almost  to  illumine 
the  sky  rather  than  receive  light  from  it.  The 
strange,  sumptuous  octagonal  temple  drawn  by  Bal- 
dassare  Longhena  from  the  dream  of  PoHfilo  was  now 
emerging  from  its  blue  green  shadow  with  its  cupola, 
its  scrolls,  its  statues,  its  columns,  its  balustrades, 
like  a  temple  dedicated  to  Neptune,  constructed 
after  the  pattern  of  tortuous  marine  shapes,  and  shad- 
ing off  into  a  haze  of  mother  of  pearl.  In  the  hollows 
of  the  stone  the  wet  sea-salt  had  deposited  something 
fresh  and  silvery  and  jewel-like,  that  vaguely  sug- 
gested pearl  shells  lying  open  in  their  native  waters. 

"  Perdita,"  said  the  Poet,  a  kind  of  intellectual  joy 
running  through  him,  as  he  saw  the  things  which  his 
imagination  called  to  life  multiplying  themselves 
everywhere,  "  does  it  not  strike  you  that  we  seem  to 
be  following  the  princely  retinue  of  dead  Summer? 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME         7 

There  she  lies,  sleeping  in  her  funeral  boat,  all 
Pressed  in  gold  like  the  wife  of  a  Doge,  like  a  Lore- 
dana,  or  a  Morosina,  or  a  Soranza,  of  the  enlightened 
centuries.  And  the  procession  is  taking  her  to  the 
Island  of  Murano,  where  some  masterly  Lord  of  Fire 
will  make  her  a  crystal  coffin.  And  the  walls  of  the 
coffin  shall  be  of  opal,  so  that  when  once  submerged 
in  the  Laguna,  she  may  at  least  see  the  languid  play 
of  the  sea-weed  through  her  transparent  eyelids,  and 
while  awaiting  the  hour  of  resurrection  give  herself 
the  illusion  of  having  still  about  her  person  the  con- 
stant undulation  of  her  voluptuous  hair." 

A  smile  poured  over  La  Foscarina's  face,  springing 
from  eyes  that  might  have  well  seen  the  beautiful 
figure.  Indeed  that  sudden  allegory  in  both  its  form 
and  rhythm  truthfully  expressed  the  feeling  that  was 
permeating  all  things.  As  the  milky  blue  of  the  opal 
is  filled  with  hidden  fire,  so  the  pale  monotonous 
water  of  the  harbour  held  dissimulated  splendours 
that  were  brought  to  light  by  each  shock  of  the  oars. 
Beyond  the  straight  forest  of  ships  motionless  on 
their  anchors  San  Giorgio  stood  out  like  a  vast 
rosy  galley,  its  prow  turned  to  the  Fortuna  that 
attracted  it  from  the  height  of  its  golden  sphere.  A 
placid  estuary  opened  out  in  the  centre  of  the  Giu- 
decca.  The  laden  boats  that  came  down  the  rivers 
flowing  into  it  brought  with  their  weight  of  splintered 
trunks  what  seemed  the  very  spirit  of  the  woods  that 
bend  over  the  running  waters  of  their  far-away  sources. 

And  from  the  Molo,  from  the  twofold  miracle  of 
the  porticoes  open  to  the  popular  applause,  where  the 
red  and  white  wall  rose  as  if  to  enclose  that  dominant 
will,  the  Riva  unfolded  its  gentle  arch  towards  the 


8  THE  FLAME    OF   LIFE 

shady  gardens  and  the  fertile  islands,  as  if  to  lead 
away  the  thoughts  excited  by  the  arduous  symbols 
of  art  to  the  restfulness  of  nature.  And  almost  as 
if  still  further  to  complete  the  avocation  of  Autumn 
there  passed  a  string  of  boats  laden  with  fruit,  like 
great  floating  baskets  that  spread  over  the  waters 
reflecting  the  perpetual  foliage  of  the  cusps  and 
Capitols,  the  fragrance  of  the  island  fruit  gardens. 

"  Do  you  know,  Perdita,"  began  Stelio,  gazing  with 
visible  pleasure  at  the  golden  bunches  and  the  purple 
figs  not  inharmoniously  heaped  in  those  boats  from 
poop  to  prow;  "do  you  know  a  detail  of  ducal 
chronicles  which  is  quite  charming?  The  wife  of  the 
Doge,  to  defray  the  expenses  of  her  state  dress, 
was  given  certain  rights  over  the  duty  on  fruit. 
Does  not  this  amuse  you,  Perdita?  The  fruit  of  the 
islands  clothing  her  in  gold  and  girding  her  round 
with  pearls,  Pomona  giving  Arachne  her  due;  an 
allegory  that  Veronese  might  well  have  painted  for 
the  ceiling  of  the  Vestiario.  Whenever  I  picture  to 
myself  the  stately  lady  standing  on  her  high  slippers 
with  the  gemmed  heels,  I  like  to  think  that  something 
fresh  and  rural  clings  to  her  between  the  folds  of 
heavy  cloth,  the  tribute  of  the  fruit.  How  many  new 
savours  seem  thus  added  to  her  magnificence.  Well, 
dear  friend,  let  us  now  imagine  that  these  figs  and 
grapes  of  the  new  Autumn  are  to  yield  the  price  of 
the  golden  dress  in  which  dead  Summer  is  wrapped." 

"  What  delightful  fancies,  Stelio  !  "  said  La  Fosca- 
rina,  youthfulness  springing  up  in  her  for  a  moment, 
so  that  she  smiled  in  the  surprised  manner  of  a  child 
before  a  picture-book.  "Who  was  it  that  one  day 
called   you   the    Image-maker?" 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME         9 

"  Ah !  those  images !  "  exclaimed  the  poet,  pene- 
trated. "  In  Venice,  in  the  same  way  that  one  can- 
not feel  except  in  music,  one  cannot  think  if  not  in 
images.  They  come  to  us  from  all  quarters,  in 
countless  numbers,  in  endless  variety,  and  they  are 
more  real,  more  living,  than  the  people  that  elbow  us 
in  the  narrow  streets.  They  let  us  bend  down  to 
scrutinize  the  depths  of  their  lingering  eyes,  and  we 
can  divine  the  words  they  are  going  to  say  by  the 
curves  of  their  eloquent  lips.  Some  are  tyrannical, 
like  imperious  mistresses,  and  hold  us  long  under  the 
yoke  of  their  power.  Others  come  to  us  wrapped 
in  veils,  like  virgins ;  or  tightly  swaddled,  like  infants ; 
and  only  he  who  can  tear  away  those  husks  will  raise 
them  to  perfect  life.  When  I  awoke  this  morning, 
my  soul  was  already  full  of  them ;  it  was  like  a  great 
tree  with  a  load  of  chrysalides." 

He  stopped  and  laughed. 

"  If  they  all  break  open  to-night,"  he  added,  "  I 
am  saved.     If  they  remain  closed,  I  am  lost." 

"  Lost?"  said  La  Foscarina,  looking  at  him  in  the 
face  with  eyes  so  full  of  confidence  that  his  gratitude 
to  her  became  immense.  "  You  cannot  lose  yourself, 
Stelio.  You  are  always  safe,  you  carry  your  fate  in 
your  own  hands.  I  think  your  mother  can  never 
have  feared  for  you,  even  in  the  worst  of  moments.  Is 
it  not  true?  It  is  only  the  excess  of  your  pride  that 
causes  your  heart  to  falter." 

"  Ah,  dear  friend,  how  I  love  you  for  this,  and 
how  grateful  I  am  to  you !  "  Stelio  confessed  can- 
didly, taking  her  hand.  "  You  are  constantly  feeding 
my  pride  in  myself  and  letting  me  half  believe  that 
I  have  already  acquired  those  virtues  to  which  I  con- 


10  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

tinually  aspire.  Sometimes  you  seem  to  have  the 
power  of  conferring  I  know  not  what  divine  quaHty 
to  the  things  that  are  born  of  my  soul,  and  of  placing 
them  at  such  a  distance  that  they  appear  adorable  in 
my  own  eyes.  You  put  in  me  the  religious  wonder  of 
the  sculptor,  who,  having  taken  his  idols  to  the  temple 
at  fall  of  day,  still  warm  from  his  touch,  and  I  would 
almost  say  still  clinging  to  the  moulding  fingers  that 
shaped  them,  finds  them  next  morning  raised  on 
pedestals  and  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  incense,  breath- 
ing divinity  from  every  pore  of  the  deaf  and  dumb 
matter  in  which  his  perishable  hands  had  fashioned 
them.  You  never  enter  my  soul  without  accomplish- 
ing a  like  deed  of  exaltation,  and  because  of  this, 
every  time  that  my  good  fortune  allows  me  to  be 
near  you,  you  become  necessary  to  my  life.  And 
nevertheless,  during  our  too  long  separations,  I  can 
live  on,  and  so  can  you,  both  knowing  to  what  splen- 
dours the  perfect  union  of  our  lives  might  give  birth. 
Thus  while  I  fully  know  all  you  bring  me,  and  further, 
all  you  could  bring,  I  consider  you  as  lost  to  me,  and 
I  call  you  by  that  name  I  have  given  you  because 
I  want  to  express  this  boundless  consciousness  and 
infinite  regret  —  " 

He  interrupted  himself,  feeling  the  hand  he  still 
held  tremble  in  his  own. 

"When  I  call  you  Perdita,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
voice,  after  a  pause,  "  I  feel  that  you  ought  to  see  my 
desire  advancing  towards  you  with  a  deadly  weapon 
thrust  in  its  heaving  side.  Even  if  it  succeed  in 
touching  you,  the  chill  of  death  will  have  already 
reached  the  points  of  its  rapacious  fingers." 

A  suffering  that  she  knew  too  well  flooded  her  as 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME       n 

she  listened  to  the  beautiful,  the  perfect  words  flow- 
ing from  her  friend's  lips  with  a  readiness  that  proved 
their  sincerity.  It  was  once  again  a  fear  and  anxiety 
that  she  herself  did  not  know  how  to  define.  She 
seemed  to  lose  the  sense  of  her  personal  being  and  to 
find  herself  thrown  into  a  kind  of  fictitious  life  both 
intense  and  hallucinating,  that  made  even  breathing 
difficult.  Once  drawn  into  that  atmosphere,  as  fiery 
as  the  encircling  neighbourhood  of  a  forge,  she  felt  her- 
self capable  of  suffering  all  the  transfigurations  that  it 
should  please  the  Life-Giver  to  work  in  her  for  the 
satisfaction  of  his  own  constant  desire  of  poetry  and 
of  beauty.  She  felt  that  in  his  poetic  spirit  her  own 
image  was  not  of  far  different  nature  to  the  image,  so 
evident  as  to  be  nearly  tangible  of  the  dead  Sum- 
mer wrapped  in  her  opalescent  shroud.  And  an 
almost  childish  desire  assailed  her,  of  seeking  in 
his  eyes,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  reflection  of  her  true 
likeness. 

What  made  her  suffering  heavier  was  the  fact  that 
she  could  trace  a  vague  resemblance  between  this 
agitated  feeling  and  the  anxiety  that  always  possessed 
her  at  the  moment  of  entering  into  a  stage  fiction  in 
order  to  incarnate  some  sublime  creation  of  Art. 
Was  he  not  drawing  her  on  to  live  in  a  similar  higher 
zone  of  life,  and,  that  she  might  figure  there  oblivious 
of  her  everyday  personality,  was  he  not  covering  her 
with  a  splendid  mask?  But,  while  to  her  it  was  only 
given  to  prolong  such  a  state  of  intensity  by  a  su- 
preme effort,  she  knew  that  he  moved  in  it,  as  easily 
as  if  it  were  his  natural  mode  of  being,  ceaselessly 
enjoying  the  miraculous  world  of  his  own  that  he 
renewed  by  an  act  of  continual  creation. 


12  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

He  had  brought  about  in  himself  the  intimate 
marriage  of  art  with  life,  and  he  thus  found  in  the 
depths  of  his  own  substance  a  spring  of  perennial 
harmonies.  His  spirit  had  found  the  means  of  unin- 
terruptedly maintaining  itself  in  that  mysterious  con- 
dition which  gives  birth  to  the  work  of  beauty  and 
of  thus  suddenly  transforming  into  ideal  species  the 
passing  figures  of  his  varied  existence.  It  was  pre- 
cisely to  this  conquest  of  his  that  he  alluded  when  he 
put  the  following  words  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  his 
personages :  "  I  stood  by  and  watched  within  myself 
the  continual  genesis  of  a  finer  life  wherein  all  ap- 
pearances were  transfigured  as  in  a  magic  mirror." 
He  was  gifted  with  an  extraordinary  facility  of  lan- 
guage that  enabled  him  to  instantly  translate  into 
words  even  his  most  complex  modes  of  feeling  with 
a  precision  so  detached  and  vivid  that  they  seemed 
at  times  to  belong  to  him  no  longer,  to  have  been 
made  objective  by  the  isolating  power  of  style.  His 
limpid  and  penetrating  voice,  that  seemed  to  draw  a 
clear  outline  round  the  musical  figure  of  each  word, 
still  further  enhanced  this  singular  quality  of  his 
speech;  so  much  so  that  an  ambiguous  feeling 
made  of  admiration  and  aversion  crept  over  those 
who  heard  him  for  the  first  time,  because  of  his  mani- 
festing himself  in  a  form  so  sharply  defined  that  it 
seemed  to  be  a  result  of  his  constant  determination 
to  establish  between  himself  and  those  who  were  to 
remain  strangers  to  him  a  deep  and  impassable  dif- 
ference. His  sensibility,  however,  equalling  his  in- 
tellect, it  was  easy  for  those  who  came  near  to  him 
and  who  loved  him  to  catch  the  glow  of  his  vehement 
and  passionate  soul  through  the  crystal  of  his  words. 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       13 

These  knew  how  wide  were  his  powers  of  feeling  and 
of  dreaming,  and  from  what  combustion  he  drew  the 
beautiful  images  into  which  he  was  wont  to  convert 
the  substance  of  his  inner  life. 

She  whom  he  called  Perdita  knew  it  well.  As  the 
pious  one  awaits  from  her  God  the  supernatural  help 
that  is  going  to  work  her  salvation,  she  seemed  wait- 
ing for  his  guidance  to  place  her  at  last  in  the  neces- 
sary state  of  grace.  Then  perhaps  she  might  elevate 
and  maintain  herself  in  that  fire  to  which  she  was 
impelled  by  her  mad  desire  of  burning  and  melting 
away.  The  loss  of  even  the  last  vestige  of  her  youth 
made  her  desperate.  She  was  terrified  of  finding 
herself  alone  in  a  gray  desert. 

"  Now  it  is  you,  Stelio,"  she  said,  with  her  slight 
concealing  smile,  gently  taking  her  hand  away  from 
her  friend,  —  "  now  it  is  you  who  wish  to  intoxicate 
me.  Look,"  she  exclaimed,  to  break  the  spell, 
pointing  to  a  laden  boat  that  was  coming  slowly 
towards  them,  —  "  look  at  your  pomegranates." 

But  her  voice  was  unsteady. 

Then  in  the  evening  dream  they  watched  the  boat 
pass  on  the  delicate  water  that  was  green  and  silvery 
like  the  new  leaves  of  the  river-willow,  the  boat  over- 
flowing with  the  emblematic  pomegranates.  They 
suggested  the  idea  of  things  rich  and  hidden,  they 
seemed  caskets  of  red  leather  bearing  the  crown  of 
the  kingly  giver,  some  tightly  closed,  some  half-open 
over  their  agglomeration  of  gems. 

In  a  hushed  voice  the  woman  murmured  the  words 
Hades  addresses  to  Persephone  when  in  the  sacred 
drama  the  daughter  of  Demeter  tastes  the  fatal 
pomegranate : 


14  THE  .FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  When  thou  shalt  pluck  the  Colchian  herb  in  flower 
Upon  the  tender  meadow-grass  of  Earth, 
Beside  thy  blue-robed  mother,  and,  one  day, 
See  glimmer  on  the  tender  meadow-grass 
The  white  feet  of  the  Oceanides, 
Then  there  shall  come  to  thine  immortal  eyes 
Remembrance,  and  a  sudden  weariness, 
The  weariness  of  daylight ;  and  thy  soul 
Shall  tremble  in  thy  heart,  Persephone, 
Mindful  of  its  deep  sleep,  and  looking  back, 
Persephone,  to  its  deep  kingdom.     Then 
Thy  blue-robed  mother  shalt  thou  see  in  silence 
Weeping  apart,  and  thou  shalt  say  to  her: 
*  O  Mother,  Hades  calls  me  to  his  deep 
Kingdom  ;  now  Hades  calls  me  far  from  day 
To  queen  it  among  shadows  ;  Hades  calls 
Me  lonely  to  his  insatiable  love.'  " 

"  Ah,  Perdita,  how  well  you  diffuse  the  shadows 
over  your  voice,"  interrupted  the  poet,  feeling  the 
harmony  of  the  night  that  darkened  the  syllables  of 
his  verse.  "  How  well  you  become  nocturnal  at  the 
fall  of  day !  Do  you  remember  the  scene  where 
Persephone  is  on  the  point  of  sinking  into  Erebus, 
while  the  chorus  of  the  Oceanides  is  moaning?  Her 
face  is  like  yours  when  you  darken  it  Her  crowned 
head  drops  backwards  as  she  stands  rigid  in  her 
crocus-dyed  peplum ;  it  seems  as  if  night  itself  were 
flowing  into  her  bloodless  body,  deepening  under 
her  chin,  in  the  hollow  of  her  eyes,  round  her  nos- 
trils, transforming  her  into  a  sombre  mask  of  trag- 
edy. It  is  your  mask,  Perdita.  The  memory  of  you 
helped  me  to  bring  forth  her  divine  person  while  I 
was  composing  my  '  Mystery.*  That  little  velvet 
ribbon  that  you  nearly  always  wear  round  your  neck 
taught  me    the  colour  most  fit  for  the  peplum   of 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME       15 

Persephone.  And  one  night,  in  your  own  house,  as 
I  was  taking  leave  of  you  on  the  threshold  of  a  room 
where  the  lamps  had  not  yet  been  lit  (an  agitated 
evening  last  autumn,  if  you  remember),  you  suc- 
ceeded with  a  mere  gesture  in  bringing  the  creature 
to  light  in  my  soul  that  was  still  lying  there  undevel- 
oped, then,  unconscious  of  having  produced  that 
sudden  nativity,  you  disappeared  into  the  intimate 
shadow  of  your  own  Erebus.  Ah,  I  was  quite  cer- 
tain I  could  hear  you  sob,  yet  a  torrent  of  ungovern- 
able joy  was  coursing  through  me.  I  have  never 
told  you  this  before,  have  I  ?  I  ought  to  have  con- 
secrated my  work  to  you,  as  to  an  ideal  Lucina." 

She  sat  there  suffering  under  the  gaze  of  the  Life- 
giver  ;  suffering  because  of  the  mask  that  he  admired 
on  her  face,  and  of  the  joy  that  she  felt  was  for  ever 
springing  up  within  him  as  from  a  source  that  could 
never  run  dry.  The  whole  of  her  own  self  gave  her 
pain;  the  mutability  of  her  features;  the  strange 
mimic  power  possessed  by  the  muscles  of  her  face, 
the  unconscious  Art  that  regulated  the  meaning  of 
her  gestures,  the  expressive  shadow  that  she  had  so 
often  known  how  to  wear  on  the  stage  like  a  veil 
of  sorrow  in  some  moment  of  expectant  silence. 
And  this  was  the  shadow  that  now  was  filling  up  the 
hollows  carved  by  time  in  her  no  longer  youthful 
body.  The  hand  she  loved  caused  her  cruel  suffer- 
ing, —  the  noble,  delicate  hand  whose  gift  or  caress 
yet  had  such  power  to  hurt  her. 

"  Don't  you  believe,  Perdita,"  Stelio  said  after 
another  pause,  "  in  the  occult  beneficence  of  signs?  " 
As  a  river's  meandering  forms,  encircles,  and  nour- 
ishes the  islands  of  the  valley,  that  clear  though  tor- 


i6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

tuous,  course  of  thought  to  which  he  gave  himself  up 
left  in  his  spirit  dark  isolated  spaces  whence  he  knew 
full  well  that  some  new  treasure  would  be  forthcom- 
ing in  his  own  good  time.  "  I  am  not  speaking  of 
astral  science,  of  the  signs  of  the  horoscope.  I  mean 
that  as  some  believe  themselves  subject  to  the  influ- 
ence of  a  certain  star,  likewise  we  can  create  an  ideal 
correspondence  between  our  soul  and  some  earthly- 
thing,  so  that  the  latter,  saturating  itself  little  by  little 
with  our  own  essence,  and  itself  being  magnified  by 
our  illusion,  at  last  appears  almost  representative  to 
us  of  some  unknown  fatality,  and  becomes  something 
like  the  figure  of  a  mystery  by  appearing  at  certain 
crises  of  our  life.  This,  Perdita,  is  the  secret  by  which 
we  may  restore  something  of  a  primeval  freshness  to 
our  souls  that  have  become  a  little  arid.  I  know  by 
experience  what  wholesome  effects  are  derived  from 
intense  communion  with  some  natural  thing.  Our 
soul  must  now  and  then  become  like  the  hamadryad 
in  order  to  feel  the  fresh  energy  of  the  tree,  the  life 
of  which  gives  it  its  own  life.  You  have  gathered 
already  that  in  saying  this  I  allude  to  your  own  words 
on  the  passing  of  the  boat.  Briefly  and  obscurely 
you  were  expressing  this  same  truth  when  you  ex- 
claimed '  Look  at  your  pomegranates  !  '  To  you 
and  to  those  who  love  me  they  can  never  be  any- 
thing but  mine.  To  you  and  to  them  the  idea  of 
my  person  is  indissolubly  bound  up  with  the  fruit  that 
I  have  chosen  for  an  emblem,  and  have  overcharged 
with  mysterious  significances  more  numerous  than  its 
own  grains.  If  I  had  lived  in  the  ages  when  the  men 
who  excavated  the  old  Greek  marbles  used  to  find 
the  roots  of  the  ancient  fables  still  moist  in  the  earth, 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       17 

no  painter  could  have  represented  rae  without  placing 
the  Punic  apple  in  my  hand.  To  sever  my  person 
from  that  symbol  would  have  seemed  to  his  ingenu- 
ous soul  like  cutting  off  a  living  part  of  me,  because, 
to  his  paganly  inclined  imagination  the  fruit  would 
have  seemed  joined  to  my  arm  as  to  its  natural 
bough.  His  idea  of  me  would  have  been  no  different 
from  that  which  he  would  have  had  of  Hyacinthus,  of 
Narcissus,  or  of  Ciparissus,  who  all  three  would  neces- 
sarily appear  to  him  alternately  under  the  aspect  of 
youth  and  symbolised  by  a  plant.  And  even  in  our 
own  times  there  are  a  few  agile  and  highly  coloured 
spirits  ready  to  understand  all  the  meaning  and  enjoy 
all  the  savour  of  my  invention.  Yourself,  Perdita, 
have  you  not  trained  a  beautiful  pomegranate  in  your 
garden  that  each  summer  you  might  see  me  blossom 
and  bring  forth  fruit?  A  letter  you  once  wrote  me 
that  was  winged  like  a  heavenly  message  describes 
the  graceful  ceremony  by  which  you  decked  out  the 
'  Effrenic  *  shrub  with  necklaces  on  the  day  you  re- 
ceived the  first  copy  of  Persephone.  Thus,  you  see, 
for  you  and  for  those  who  love  me,  I  have  truly 
renewed  an  antique  myth  by  thus  projecting  myself 
into  one  of  the  forms  of  eternal  Nature;  so  that 
when  I  die  (and  Nature  grant  that  before  then  I  may 
have  manifested  myself  wholly  in  my  work !)  my 
disciples  will  honour  me  under  the  symbol  of  the 
Pomegranate.  In  the  sharpness  of  the  leaf,  in  the 
flame-colour  of  the  blossom,  in  the  gem-like  pulp 
of  the  crowned  fruit,  they  will  recognise  some  of  the 
qualities  of  my  art:  by  that  leaf,  by  that  flower, 
and  by  that  fruit,  as  if  by  a  posthumous  teaching  of 
their  master,  their  intellects  will  be  led  to  that  same 


I8  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

flame,  eharpness,  and  enclosed  opulence.  You  see 
now,  Perdita,  what  the  true  benefit  is.  By  affinity  I 
myself  am  led  on  to  develop  myself  in  accordance 
with  the  magnificent  genius  of  the  tree  by  which  I 
chose  to  signify  my  aspirations  to  rich  and  ardent 
life.  It  seems  as  if  this  vegetating  effigy  of  myself 
were  sufficient  to  reassure  me  that  my  powers  are 
conforming  to  nature  in  their  development,  so  as  to 
obtain  in  a  natural  way  the  effect  for  which  they  were 
destined.  '  Thus  hath  nature  disposed  me,'  is  Leo- 
nardo's epigraph  that  I  wrote  on  the  title-page  of  my 
first  book ;  and  the  pomegranate  as  it  blossoms  and 
brings  forth  fruit  unceasingly  repeats  that  simple 
motto.  We  can  only  obey  the  laws  written  in  our 
own  substance  and  by  them  we  must  remain  com- 
plete in  a  fulness  and  unity  that  fill  us  with  joy 
amongst  so  many  dissolutions.  There  is  no  discord 
between  my  art  and  my  life." 

He  spoke  with  complete  freedom,  and  in  a  flowing 
stream,  as  if  he  felt  the  spirit  of  the  listening  woman 
become  concave  like  a  chalice  to  receive  that  wave, 
and  wished  to  fill  it  to  the  brim.  An  ever  clearer 
intellectual  joy  was  spreading  over  him,  together 
with  a  vague  consciousness  of  the  mysterious  process 
that  was  preparing  his  mind  for  the  effort  which 
awaited  it.  Now  and  then  as  he  bent  over  his  lonely 
friend  and  heard  the  oar  measuring  the  silence  that 
rose  from  the  great  estuary,  he  would  catch  a  glimpse, 
like  a  flash,  of  the  crowd  with  its  innumerable  faces 
that  was  thickening  in  the  great  hall,  and  a  quick 
tremor  would  shake  his  heart. 

"  It  is  very  singular,  Perdita,"  he  went  on,  gaz- 
ing   at    the   pale   far  waters   where    the    low   tide 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       19 

blackened  the  shore,  — "  it  is  very  singular  to  note 
how  easily  chance  assists  our  fancy  in  giving  a  mys- 
terious character  to  the  conjunction  of  certain  appear- 
ances with  the  aim  we  have  imagined.  I  cannot 
understand  why  the  poets  of  our  day  wax  indignant 
at  the  vulgarity  of  their  age  and  complain  of  having 
come  into  the  world  too  early  or  too  late.  I  believe 
that  every  man  of  intellect  can,  to-day  as  ever,  create 
his  own  beautiful  fable  of  life.  We  should  look  into 
Jife's  confused  whirl  in  the  same  spirit  of  fancy  that 
the  disciples  of  Leonardo  were  taught  to  adopt  in 
gazing  at  the  spots  on  a  wall,  at  the  ashes  of  fire,  at 
clouds,  even  mud  and  other  similar  objects,  in  order 
to  find  there  *  admirable  inventions '  and  *  infinite 
things.'  The  same  spirit  prompted  Leonardo  to 
add :  *  In  the  sound  of  bells  you  will  find  every 
word  and  every  name  that  you  choose  to  imagine.' 
That  master  well  knew  —  as  the  sponge  of  Apelles 
had  already  pointed  out  —  that  chance  always  be- 
friends the  ingenious  artist.  To  me,  for  example,  the 
ease  and  grace  with  which  chance  seconds  the  har- 
monious unfolding  of  my  invention  is  a  constant 
source  of  astonishment.  Don't  you  think  that  black 
Hades  forced  his  bride  to  eat  the  seven  grains  on 
purpose  to  furnish  me  with  the  subject-matter  of 
a  masterpiece  ? " 

He  interrupted  himself  with  a  burst  of  the  youth- 
ful laughter  that  always  so  clearly  revealed  the  native 
joy  dwelling  within  him. 

"  See,  Perdita,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  whether  I 
am  right.  In  the  very  beginning  of  last  October  I 
was  invited  to  Burano  by  Donna  Andriana  Duodo. 
We  spent  the  morning  in  her  gardens   of  thread; 


20  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

during  the  afternoon  we  went  to  visit  Torcello.  1 
had  already  begun  living  in  the  myth  of  Persephone 
in  those  days,  and  the  work  was  being  slowly  formed 
within  me,  so  that  I  felt  as  if  I  were  gliding  on 
Stygian  waters  and  passing  into  the  regions  that  lie 
beyond  them.  Never  had  I  known  a  purer  and 
sweeter  foretaste  of  death,  and  that  feeling  had  made 
me  so  light  that  I  could  have  walked  on  the  meadow 
of  Asphodel  without  leaving  a  footprint.  The  air 
was  damp,  soft,  and  grayish ;  the  canals  meandered 
between  banks  overgrown  with  discoloured  herbs. 
(Perhaps  you  only  know  Torcello  in  the  sunshine.) 
But  meanwhile  some  one  was  talking  and  discussing 
in  Charon's  boat.  The  sound  of  praise  awoke  me. 
Alluding  to  me,  Francesco  de  Lizo  was  lamenting 
that  a  princely  artist  so  magnificently  sensual  —  they 
are  his  own  words  —  should  be  forced  to  live  apart 
far  from  an  obtuse  and  hostile  crowd,  and  to  cele- 
brate the  feast  '  of  sounds,  of  celours,  and  of  forms ' 
in  the  palace  of  his  lonely  dream.  Giving  way  to 
a  lyric  impulse  he  recalled  the  splendidly  festive 
lives  of  the  Venetian  artists,  the  public  consent  that 
lifted  them  up  like  a  whirlwind  to  the  heights  of 
glory,  the  beauty,  strength,  and  joy  that  they  multi- 
plied around  them  and  reflected  in  the  numberless 
figures  they  painted  on  high  walls  and  arched  ceil- 
ings. And  Donna  Andriana  said  :  '  Well,  then,  I 
solemnly  promise  you  that  Stelio  Effrena  shall  have 
his  triumphant  festival  in  Venice  itself.'  It  was  the 
Dogaressa  who  spoke.  At  that  moment  I  saw  a 
pomegranate  laden  with  fruit  break  the  infinite 
squalor  of  the  low,  greenish  bank  like  a  hallucinat- 
ing apparition.     Donna  Orsetta  Contarini,  who  was 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       21 

seated  next  to  me,  gave  a  ery  of  delight,  and  held 
out  two  hands  as  impatient  as  her  desire.  Nothing 
pleases  me  so  much  as  the  sincere  and  powerful 
expression  of  desire.  '  I  adore  a  pomegranate ! ' 
she  exclaimed,  as  if  already  enjoying  its  pleasant 
sub-acid  flavour.  She  was  as  childlike  over  it  as 
her  archaic  name.  I  was  stirred,  but  Andrea  Con- 
tarini  seemed  deeply  to  disapprove  of  his  wife's 
eagerness.  He  is  an  Hades  having  but  little  faith, 
it  would  seem,  in  the  mnemonic  virtue  of  the  seven 
grains  as  applied  to  lawful  wedlock.  The  boatmen, 
however,  had  been  stirred  too,  and  were  making  for 
the  shore.  I  jumped  on  the  bank  first  and  fell  to 
stripping  the  tree,  my  blood  relation.  It  was  truly 
a  case  of  repeating  with  pagan  lips  the  words  of  the 
Last  Supper :  '  Take,  eat,  this  is  my  body,  which  is 
given  for  you.  Do  this  in  remembrance  of  me.' 
How  does  all  this  strike  you,  Perdita  ?  You  must 
not  think  I  am  inventing.     I  am  quite  truthful." 

She  was  being  carried  away  along  that  free  and  ele- 
gant play  of  words  by  which  he  seemed  to  exercise  the 
nimbleness  of  his  spirit  and  the  facility  of  his  elo- 
quence. There  was  something  undulating,  variable, 
and  powerful  about  him  that  conjured  up  the  twofold 
image  of  flame  and  of  water. 

"  Now,"  he  continued,  "  Donna  Andriana  has  kept 
her  promise.  Guided  by  that  taste  for  antique  splen- 
dour that  so  largely  survives  in  her,  she  has  prepared 
a  festival  truly  worthy  of  the  Doges  in  the  Ducal 
Palace,  in  imitation  of  those  that  were  celebrated 
towards  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  is  she 
who  thought  of  rescuing  the  Ariadne  of  Benedetto 
Marcello  from  her  oblivion,  and  of  making  her  sigh 


22  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

out  her  lamentation  in  the  very  place  where  Tin- 
toretto has  painted  the  Minoide  in  the  act  of  receiv- 
ing the  crown  of  stars  from  Aphrodite.  Does  not 
the  same  woman  who  left  her  clear  eyes  behind  on 
the  ineffable  green  gown  shine  in  the  beauty  of  this 
thought?  Add  to  it  that  there  is  an  ancient  counter- 
part to  this  musical  performance  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Greater  Council.  A  mythological  composition  by 
Cornelio  Frangipani,  the  music  by  Claudio  Merulo, 
was  recited  in  the  same  hall  in  the  year  1573  in 
honour  of  the  most  Christian  emperor  Henry  HL 
Confess,  Perdita,  that  my  learning  bewilders  you. 
Oh,  if  you  knew  how  much  of  it  I  have  accumulated 
on  the  subject.  I  will  read  you  my  discourse  some 
day  when  you  deserve  severe  punishment." 

"  But  will  you  not  read  it  at  the  festival  to-night?" 
La  Foscarina  asked,  surprised  and  fearful  lest  he 
should  have  resolved  to  disappoint  the  expectation 
of  the  public,  with  his  well-known  careless  ignoring 
of  obligation. 

He  divined  his  friend's  anxiety  and  confirmed  it. 

"  This  evening,"  he  said,  with  quiet  assurance,  "  I 
am  coming  to  take  an  ice  in  your  garden  and  to 
enjoy  the  sight  of  the  begemmed  pomegranate, 
gleaming  under  the  sky." 

"Oh,  Stelio !  What  are  you  doing?"  she  ex- 
claimed, starting  up. 

There  was  in  her  words  and  action  so  sharp  a 
regret,  and  at  the  same  time  so  strange  an  evocation 
of  the  expectant  crowd,  that  they  troubled  him.  The 
image  of  that  crowd,  the  formidable  monster  with  the 
numberless  human  faces,  stood  before  him  amid  the 
purple  and  gold  of  the  great   hall,  bringing   him  a 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       23 

foretaste  of  its  fixed  stare  and  its  stifling  breath. 
Suddenly,  too,  he  measured  the  danger  he  had  de- 
cided to  face  in  trusting  only  to  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment,  and  he  realised  what  the  horror  would  be  of 
a  sudden  mental  darkening,  of  some  unlooked-for 
bewilderment. 

"  Reassure  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  was  jesting.  I 
will  go  ad  bestias,  and  I  will  go  unarmed.  The  sign 
appeared  again  a  moment  ago;  did  you  not  see  it? 
Do  you  think  it  can  have  appeared  in  vain  after  the 
miracle  of  Torcello?  It  has  come  to  warn  me  once 
more  that  I  must  only  assure  those  attitudes  for 
which  Nature  has  disposed  me.  Now  you  well  know, 
dear  friend,  that  I  can  only  speak  of  myself.  There- 
fore from  the  throne  of  the  Doges  I  must  only  speak 
to  the  audience  of  my  own  soul  under  the  veil  of 
some  seductive  allegory  and  with  the  enchantment  of 
some  beautiful  musical  cadence.  This  I  shall  do  ex 
tempore,  if  the  flaming  spirit  of  Tintoretto  will  only 
pour  down  to  me  from  his  Paradiso  something  of  his 
own  fervour  and  daring.  The  risk  tempts  me.  But 
what  a  singular  self-deception  I  was  about  to  fall  into, 
Perdita  !  When  the  Dogaressa  announced  the  festi- 
val and  invited  me  here  to  do  it  honour,  I  began 
writing  a  pompous  discourse,  a  truly  ceremonious 
piece  of  prose,  ample  and  solemn,  like  one  of  the 
purple  state  gowns  in  the  glass  cases  in  the  Correr 
Museum ;  not  without  a  deep  genuflection  to  the 
Queen  in  the  preamble,  not  without  a  leafy  garland 
for  the  head  of  the  most  serene  Andriana  Duodo. 
And  for  some  days,  with  curious  complacency  I 
dwelt  very  near  the  spirit  of  a  Venetian  patrician  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  Cardinal  Bembo,  for  instance, 


24  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

adorned  with  all  learning,  academician  of  the  Urania 
or  the  Adorni,  and  assiduous  frequenter  of  the  gar- 
dens of  Murano  and  the  hills  of  Asolo,  I  am  sure 
there  was  a  certain  correspondence  between  the  turn 
of  my  periods  and  the  massive  gold  frames  that  en- 
circle the  paintings  in  the  ceiling  of  the  Council  Hall. 
But,  alas  !  as  I  reached  Venice  yesterday  morning,  and 
in  passing  by  the  Grand  Canal  dipped  my  weariness 
in  the  moist  transparent  shadows  where  the  marble 
still  exhaled  the  spirituality  that  night  gives  it,  I  felt 
that  my  sheets  were  worth  much  less  than  the  dead 
sea-weeds  rocked  by  the  tide,  and  seemed  strangers 
to  me  no  less  than  the  Trionfi  of  Celio  Magno  or  the 
Favoli  Maritti  of  Anton  Maria  Consalvi  that  I  had 
quoted  and  commented  on  in  them.  What  was  I  to 
do,  then?" 

He  cast  an  exploring  glance  round  sky  and  water 
as  if  to  discover  an  invisible  presence,  or  recognise 
some  newly  arrived  phantom.  A  yellowish  glare  was 
stretching  to  the  more  solitary  shores,  that  stood  out 
in  it  as  if  drawn  there  in  finely  pencilled  lines,  like  the 
opaque  veining  of  agates;  behind  him,  towards  the 
Salute,  the  sky  was  scattered  over  with  light-spreading 
vapours,  violet  and  rosy,  that  made  it  comparable  to 
a  changing  sea  peopled  by  sea-anemones.  From  the 
neighbouring  gardens  there  descended  an  exhaled  fra- 
grance of  plants  saturated  with  light  and  warmth,  like 
floating  aromatic  oils  heavy  on  the  bronze-like  water. 

"  Do  you  feel  the  autumn,  Perdita?  "  he  asked  his 
absorbed  friend,  awakening  her  with  his  voice. 

The  vision  returned  to  her  of  dead  Summer  being 
lowered  among  the  sea-weeds  of  the  laguna,  shrouded 
in  its  opalescent  glass. 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       25 

"  It  is  upon  me,"  she  answered,  with  a  melancholy 
smile. 

"  Did  you  not  see  it  yesterday,  when  it  descended 
on  the  city?  Where  were  you  yesterday  at  sun- 
down?" 

"  In  a  garden  of  the  Giudecca." 

"  I  was  here,  on  the  Riva.  Does  it  not  seem  to  you 
that  when  human  eyes  have  seen  a  similar  vision  of 
joy  and  beauty,  the  lids  ought  to  close  over  them  for 
ever  to  keep  them  sealed?  It  is  of  these  secret  hid- 
den things  that  I  should  like  to  speak  to-night,  Per- 
dita.  I  should  like  to  celebrate  in  myself  the  marriage 
of  Venice  with  Autumn,  giving  it  an  intonation  as 
little  different  as  possible  from  that  of  Tintoretto  when 
he  painted  the  Marriage  of  Ariadne  and  Bacchus  for 
the  hall  of  the  Anticollegio,  —  azure,  purple  and 
gold.  Yesterday  an  old  germ  of  poetry  suddenly 
broke  open  in  my  soul.  I  remembered  the  fragment 
of  a  forgotten  poem  in  ttotia  ritna  that  I  began  writ- 
ing here  when  I  came  to  Venice  for  the  first  time,  one 
September  in  my  earliest  youth  that  I  spent  at  sea. 
It  was  called  The  Allegory  of  Autumn,  and  it  sang  the 
praises  of  the  god  no  longer  crowned  with  vine-leaves, 
but  with  jewels  like  one  of  Veronese's  princes,  fired 
with  passion,  about  to  migrate  to  the  sea-city  with 
the  arms  of  marble  and  the  thousand  girdles  of  green. 
At  that  time  the  idea  had  not  reached  the  degree  of 
intensity  necessary  for  it  to  enter  into  the  life  of  Art, 
and  instinctively  I  abandoned  the  effort  of  manifesting 
it  as  a  whole.  But,  in  the  active  spirit  as  in  the  fertile 
soil,  no  seed  is  ever  lost:  it  returns  to  me  now  at  the 
right  moment  urgently  demanding  expression.  What 
a  just  but  mysterious  fate  governs  the  world  of  the 


26  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

mind !  It  was  essential  that  I  should  respect  that 
first  germ  in  order  to  feel  its  multiplied  virtue  expand 
in  me  to-day.  That  Vinci,  who  has  darted  a  glance 
into  every  profound  thing,  certainly  meant  to  convey 
this  particular  truth  by  his  fable  of  the  grain  of  millet 
that  says  to  the  ant,  '  If  you  will  in  so  far  please  me 
as  to  let  me  enjoy  my  desire  of  new  birth,  I  will  re- 
store myself  to  you  an  hundredfold.'  Admire  this 
touch  of  grace  in  those  fingers  that  could  bend  iron. 
Ah,  he  ever  remains  the  incomparable  master.  How 
shall  I  forget  him  awhile  that  I  may  give  myself  up 
to  the  Venetians?  " 

Of  a  sudden  the  gay  irony  with  which  he  addressed 
himself  in  his  last  words  died  out,  and  his  whole 
attention  seemed  to  bend  over  his  thoughts.  With 
bowed  head,  his  body  feeling  a  kind  of  convulsed 
contraction  that  answered  to  the  extreme  tension  of 
his  spirit,  he  began  to  trace  some  of  the  secret  analo- 
gies which  should  bind  together  many  images  ap- 
pearing to  him  as  if  in  the  rapid  intervals  between 
successive  lightning  flashes,  and  to  determine  some 
of  the  broader  lines  upon  which  those  images  should 
be  developed.  Such  was  his  agitation  that  the 
muscles  of  his  face  quivered  visibly  under  the  skin, 
and  the  woman  felt,  as  she  watched  him,  a  reflected 
anguish  not  unsimilar  to  what  she  would  have  felt 
had  he  made  before  her  a  spasmodic  effort  to  draw 
the  string  of  a  gigantic  bow.  And  she  knew  that 
he  was  far  away,  estranged,  indifferent  to  everything 
that  was  not  his  own  thought. 

"  It  is  already  late,  the  hour  is  drawing  near,  we 
must  go  back,"  he  said,  suddenly  pulling  himself 
together  as  if  pressed  by  anxiety,  as  if  the  formi- 


A 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       27 


dable  monster  with  its  innumerable  human  faces  that 
would  occupy  the  great  resounding"  hall  had  reap- 
peared. "  I  must  get  back  to  the  hotel  in  time  to 
dress." 

And  his  youthful  vanity  blossomed  again  at  the 
thought  of  the  unknown  women  whose  eyes  were  to 
fall  upon  him  for  the  first  time  that  night. 

"  To  the  Hotel  Daniele,"  La  Foscarina  called  to  the 
oarsman. 

As  the  dentellated  iron  at  the  prow  veered  round 
on  the  water  with  a  slow  swing  like  a  crawling  ani- 
mal, both  felt  a  different  but  equally  acute  suffer- 
ing at  leaving  behind  them  the  infinite  silence  of  the 
estuary,  already  mastered  by  shadow  and  death, 
at  turning  back  towards  the  magnificent  City  of 
Temptation,  in  whose  canals,  as  in  the  veins  of  a 
voluptuous  woman,  the  fever  of  night  was  kindling. 
^S^They  were  silent  awhile,  absorbed  by  the  internal 
tempest  that  belaboured  them,  penetrating  to  the 
roots  of  their  being  and  forcing  them  as  if  to  tear 
th^em  up.  The  aromas  descended  from  the  gardens 
swimming  like  oil  on  the  water,  that  showed  a  glitter 
as  of  burnt  bronze  here  and  there  in  its  folds.  There 
was  something  like  the  phantom  of  past  pageants  in 
the  air,  which  they  perceived  in  the  same  way  that 
they  had  felt  a  worn  note  of  gold  while  contemplat- 
ing the  harmony  of  the  durable  marbles  on  the 
palaces  that  age  had  dimmed.  That  magic  evening 
seemed  to  renew  the  breath  and  reflection  of  the 
east  clinging  as  of  old  to  the  round,  hollow  sails  and 
curved  flanks  of  the  galleys  that  brought  them  home 
with  their  beautiful  spoil.  And  all  things  around 
seemed  to  exalt  the  forces  of  life  in  the  man  who 


28  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

would  have  drawn  the  very  universe  to  himself  in 
order  not  to  die,  in  the  woman  who  would  have 
thrown  her  burdened  soul  to  the  stake  if  that  could 
have  made  her  die  pure.  And  both  sat  with  their 
anxiety  growing  upon  them,  listening  to  the  flight 
of  time,  as  if  the  water  on  which  they  glided  were 
flowing  through  a  fearful  clepsydra. 

Both  started  at  the  sudden  burst  of  the  salute  that 
hailed  the  lowering  of  the  flag  on  board  a  man- 
of-war  anchored  near  the  gardens.  They  saw  the 
striped  bunting  flutter  above  the  black  mass  and 
descend  along  its  staff,  and  its  folds  drop  like  some 
heroic  dream  suddenly  vanishing.  The  silence  seemed 
deeper  for  a  moment,  and  the  gondola  slipped  into 
denser  shadow  as  it  grazed  the  flank  of  the  armed 
giant. 

"  Perdita,"  Stelio  Effrena  said  unexpectedly,  "  do 
you  know  that  Donatella  Arvale  who  is  going  to 
sing  in  Ariadne  ?" 

In  that  deeper  shadow  his  voice  echoed  with  singu- 
lar resonance  against  the  ironclad. 

"  She  is  the  daughter  of  Lorenzo  Arvale,  the  great 
sculptor,"  La  Foscarina  answered  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "  She  is  one  of  my  dearest  friends,  and  she  is 
also  my  guest.  You  will  meet  her,  therefore,  at  my 
house  after  the  festival." 

"  Donna  Andriana  spoke  to  me  about  her  last 
night  with  great  warmth  as  a  marvellous  being.  She 
told  me  that  the  idea  of  unearthing  this  Ariadne 
came  to  her  one  day  on  hearing  Donatella  Arvale 
sing  the  air,  *  Ah  come  mai  piwi —  Vedermi  piangere! 
We  are  going  to  have  some  wonderful  music  at  your 
house,  then,  Perdita.     Ah,  how  I  thirst  for  it !     Down 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       29 

there  in  my  solitude  I  have  had  no  music  for  many 
months  but  that  of  the  sea,  which  is  too  terrible,  and 
my  own,  which  is  too  confused  as  yet," 

The  bells  of  San  Marco  gave  the  signal  for  the 
Angelus,  and  their  ponderous  roll  dilated  in  long 
waves  along  the  mirror  of  the  harbour,  vibrated 
through  the  masts  of  the  ships,  spread  afar  towards 
the  infinite  lagoon.  From  San  Giorgio  Maggiore, 
from  San  Giorgio  dei  Greci,  from  San  Giorgio  degli 
Schiavoni,  from  San  Giovanni  in  Bragora,  from  San 
Moise,  from  the  churches  of  the  Salute  and  the  Re- 
dentore  and  beyond,  over  the  whole  domain  of  the 
Evangelist,  from  the  far  towers  of  the  Madonna  dell' 
Orto,  of  San  Giobbe,  of  Sant'  Andrea,  bronze  voices 
answered,  mingling  in  one  great  chorus,  spreading 
over  the  silent  company  of  stones  and  water  one  great 
dome  of  invisible  metal,  the  vibrations  of  which 
seemed  to  reach  the  twinkling  of  the  earliest  stars. 
In  the  purity  of  evening  the  sacred  voices  gave  the 
City  of  Silence  a  sort  of  immensity  of  grandeur. 
From  the  summit  of  their  temples  they  brought 
anxious  mankind  the  message  sent  by  the  immortal 
multitudes  hidden  in  the  darkness  of  deep  aisles,  or 
mysteriously  troubled  by  the  light  of  votive  lamps; 
they  brought  to  spirits  worn  out  by  the  day  the  mes- 
sage of  the  superhuman  creatures  figured  on  the 
walls  of  secluded  chapels  and  in  the  niches  of  inner 
altars,  who  had  announced  miracles  and  promised 
worlds.  And  all  the  apparitions  of  the  consoling 
Beauty  invoked  by  unanimous  Prayer,  rose  on  that 
storm  of  sound,  spoke  in  that  aerial  chorus,  irradiated 
the  face  of  the  marvellous  night. 

"  Can  you  still  pray?  "  asked  Stelio,  in  a  low  voice, 


30  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

on  seeing  that  the  woman's  lids  were  lowered  and 
motionless,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  her  whole 
person  absorbed  in  some  interior  act. 

She  did  not  answer,  only  pressing  her  lips  closer 
together.  And  both  listened  on,  feeling  that  their 
distress  was  about  to  overtake  them,  in  the  fulness  of 
its  tide,  like  a  river  no  longer  interrupted  by  a  cata- 
ract. Both  had  a  grave,  confused  consciousness  of 
the  strange  interval,  in  which  a  new  image  had  sprung 
up  unexpectedly  between  them  and  a  new  name  had 
been  uttered.'  ^  The  ghost  of  the  unforeseen  sensation 
they  had  felt  on  entering  the  shadow  of  the  ironclad 
seemed  to  have  remained  in  them,  like  an  isolated 
encumbrance,  like  an  indistinct,  and  nevertheless  per- 
sistent, point  round  which  was  a  kind  of  unexplored 
void.  Distress  in  the  fulness  of  its  tide  now  sud- 
denly seized  them,  throwing  them  towards  each 
other,  uniting  them  with  such  vehemence  that  they 
dared  not  look  into  each  other's  eyes  for  fear  of 
reading  there  some  too  brutal  desire. 

"  Shall  we  not  meet  again  to-night,  after  the  festi- 
val? "  asked  La  Foscarina,  with  a  tremble  in  her  faint 
voice.     "  Are  you  not  free?  " 

She  hastened  to  detain  him,  to  imprison  him,  as  if 
he  were  about  to  slip  from  her,  as  if  she  hoped  that 
night  to  find  some  philtre  that  would  lastingly  attach 
him  to  her.  And,  while  she  felt  that  the  gift  of  her- 
self had  at  length  become  a  necessity,  yet  the  fearful 
lucidity  that  pierced  the  flame  within  her  had  shown 
her  the  poverty  of  the  gift  so  long  denied.  And  a 
sorrowful  modesty,  made  of  fear  and  of  pride,  con- 
tracted her  faded  limbs. 

"  I  am  free ;  I  am  yours,"  the  young  man  answered 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       31 

in  a  lower  voice,  without  looking  at  her.  "  You  know 
that  nothing  is  worth  to  me  that  which  you  can 
give." 

He  too  was  trembling  to  the  depths  of  his  heart, 
with  the  two  aims  before  him  that  caused  him  to 
strain  his  energy  like  a  mighty  bow, —  the  city  and  the 
woman ;  both  deep  and  tempting  and  tired  with  hav- 
ing lived  too  much,  and  languid  with  too  many  loves; 
both  over-magnified  by  his  dream,  and  fated  to  de- 
lude his  expectation. 

For  some  seconds  a  violent  wave  of  regret  and 
desires  overcame  him.  The  pride ;  the  intoxication  o{ 
his  hard,  dogged  labour;  his  boundless,  uncurbed  am- 
bition that  had  been  forced  into  a  field  too  narrow  for 
it;  his  bitter  intolerance  of  mediocrity  in  life ;  his  claim 
to  princely  privileges ;  the  dissembled  craving  for 
action  by  which  he  was  propelled  towards  the  multi- 
tude as  to  the  prey  he  should  prefer;  the  vision  of 
great  and  imperious  art  that  should  be  at  the  same  time 
a  signal  of  light  in  his  hands  and  a  weapon  of  sub- 
jection ;  his  strangely  imperial  dreams ;  his  insatiable 
need  of  predominance,  of  glory,  of  pleasure, —  rebelled 
tumultuously,  dazzling  and  suffocating  him  in  their 
confusion.  And  his  sadness  inclined  him  to  the  last 
love  of  the  lonely,  wandering  woman  who  seemed  to 
carry  in  the  folds  of  her  dress  the  silenced  frenzy  of 
those  far-off  multitudes  from  whose  pent-up  brutality 
her  cry  of  passion  or  burst  of  sorrow  or  enthralling 
pause  had  wrenched  the  sublime  pulsation  that  Art 
quickens.  A  troubled  desire  drew  him  to  the  de- 
spairing woman  in  whom  the  traces  of  every  pleasure 
were  visible  —  towards  that  ageing  body  saturated 
with  endless  caresses,  yet  still  unknown  to  him. 


32  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  Is  it  a  promise?  "  he  asked,  controlling  his  agita- 
tion.    "Ah,  at  last !  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  gave  him  a  look  of  almost 
insane  ardour,  which  escaped  him. 

And  they  remained  silent,  and  the  roll  of  the  bells 
passing  over  their  heads  was  so  strong  that  they  felt 
it  at  the  roots  of  their  hair,  like  a  quiver  of  their  own 
flesh. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  near  the  landing-place. 
**  On  coming  into  the  courtyard  let  us  meet  at  the 
second  well  on  the  side  of  the  Molo." 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  Place  yourself  so  that  I 
may  distinguish  you  among  the  crowd  when  I  am 
about  to  utter  the  first  word." 

An  indistinct  clamour  came  from  San  Marco, 
above  the  sound  of  the  bells,  spreading  over  the 
Piazzetta,  dwindling  away  towards  the  Fortuna, 

"  May  all  light  be  on  your  forehead,  Stelio,"  said 
the  woman,  holding  out  her  dry  hands  to  him  pas- 
sionately. 

Stelio  Effrena  entered  the  court  by  the  south 
door.  On  seeing  the  Giant's  Staircase  invaded  by 
the  black  and  white  multitude  that  swarmed  up 
under  the  reddish  light  of  the  torches  fixed  in  the 
iron  candelabra,  he  felt  a  sudden  movement  of 
repugnance,  and  stopped  in  the  long  covered  gallery. 
There  was  a  contrast  that  jarred  on  him  too  acutely 
between  the  meaner  intruding  crowd  and  the  sight 
of  those  architectural  forms,  magnified  still  more  by 
the  unusual  illumination  in  which  the  strength  and 
the  beauty  of  their  former  life  were  expressed  in 
such  varied  harmonies. 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       33 

"  Oh,  how  wretched  !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  the 
friends  who  accompanied  him.  "  In  the  Hall  of  the 
Greater  Council,  from  the  throne  of  the  Doges,  how 
can  one  find  a  metaphor  that  will  bring  emotion  to 
a  thousand  starched  shirt-fronts!  Let  us  go  back; 
let  us  go  and  drink  in  the  odour  of  the  other  crowd 
outside,  the  real  crowd.  The  Queen  has  not  yet 
left  the  palace !     We  have  plenty  of  time." 

"  Until  I  see  you  on  the  platform,"  Francesco  de 
Lizo  said,  laughing,  "  I  shall  not  be  sure  that  you  are 
really  going  to  speak." 

"  I  think  Stelio  would  prefer  the  balcony  between 
the  two  blood-like  columns  to  the  platform  in  the 
hall,  would  prefer  haranguing  a  rebellious  populace 
that  had  threatened  to  set  fire  to  the  new  Procuratie 
and  the  old  Libreria"  said  Piero  Martello,  wishing 
to  flatter  the  master's  taste  for  sedition  and  the  fac- 
tious spirit  that  he  himself  imitated  in  his  affectation. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Stelio,  "  if  the  harangue 
were  sufficient  to  stop  or  hasten  an  irreparable  act. 
I  grant  you  that  the  words  we  write  should  be  used 
to  create  a  pure  form  of  beauty  contained  and  shut 
in  by  a  book  as  by  a  tabernacle  that  is  only  ap- 
proached by  election,  and  by  an  act  of  that  same 
deliberate  will  necessary  for  the  breaking  of  a  seal ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  words  we  address  directly 
to  a  multitude  should  have  no  other  aim  but  action, 
even  violent  action,  if  need  be.  Only  on  this  con- 
dition can  a  spirit  that  is  a  trifle  haughty  commu- 
nicate with  the  crowd  by  means  of  voice  and  gesture 
without  lowering  itself.  In  any  other  case  his  game 
can  only  be  of  a  histrionic  nature.  For  this  reason 
I  bitterly  repent  having  accepted  my  present  office 


34  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

of  ornate  and  pleasure-giving  orator.  Each  of  you 
may  grasp  how  much  is  humiliating  to  me  in  this 
honour  of  which  I  am  made  the  mark,  and  how 
much  is  useless  in  my  coming  effort.  All  these 
outside,  wrested  for  one  night  from  their  mediocre 
occupations  or  their  favourite  pastimes,  are  coming 
to  hear  me  with  the  same  futile  and  stupid  curiosity 
with  which  they  would  go  and  listen  to  any  vir- 
tuoso. To  the  women  among  my  listeners  the  art 
with  which  I  have  composed  the  knot  of  my  cravat 
will  be  far  more  appreciated  than  the  art  with  which 
I  round  my  periods.  And,  after  all,  the  effect  of 
my  speech  will  probably  be  a  burst  of  deadened 
applause  from  gloved  hands,  or  a  low,  discreet 
murmur  which  I  shall  acknowledge  with  a  bow. 
Don't  you  think  that  I  am  indeed  about  to  touch  the 
highest  summit  of  my  ambitions?  " 

"  You  are  wrong,"  said  Francesco  de  Lizo.  "  You 
must  congratulate  yourself  on  having  succeeded  in 
impressing  the  rhythm  of  art  on  the  life  of  a  forget- 
ful city  for  a  few  hours,  and  in  having  given  us  a 
glimpse  of  the  splendours  that  might  beautify  our 
existence  through  a  renewed  marriage  of  art  with 
life.  If  the  man  who  built  the  Festival  Theatre 
at  Bayreuth  were  present,  he  would  applaud  this 
harmony  which  he  himself  has  announced.  But  the 
admirable  part  of  it  is  that,  though  you  were  absent 
from  and  ignorant  of  it,  the  festival  seems  to  have 
been  disposed  by  the  guidance  of  your  own  spirit, 
by  an  inspiration,  a  design  of  your  own.  This  is 
the  best  proof  of  a  possibility  of  restoring  and 
diffusing  taste,  even  in  the  midst  of  present  barbari- 
ties.    Your  influence   is   deeper  at  the  present  day 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       35 

than  you  think.  The  lady  who  has  wished  to  do 
you  honour,  she  whom  you  call  the  Dogaressa,  has 
asked  herself  at  every  new  idea  rising  in  her  mind, 
*  Would  this  please  SteHo  Effrena?  '  You  don't  know 
how  many  men  of  the  younger  generation  are  now 
asking  themselves  the  same  question  when  they 
consider  the  aspects  of  their  inner  life !  " 

"  For  whom  should  you  speak,  if  not  for  these?  " 
said  Daniele  Glauro,  the  fervent,  sterile  ascete  of 
Beauty,  in  that  spiritual  voice  of  his  that  seemed 
to  reflect  the  inextinguishable  white-heat  of  a  soul 
cherished  by  the  master  as  the  most  faithful.  "  If 
you  look  round  when  you  stand  on  the  platform 
you  will  easily  recognise  them  by  the  expression 
of  their  eyes.  They  are  very  numerous,  some, 
too,  have  come  from  afar,  and  they  are  waiting 
with  an  anxiety  that  you  perhaps  cannot  under- 
stand. Their  number  is  made  up  of  those  who 
have  drunk  in  your  poetry,  who  have  breathed  the 
fiery  ether  of  your  dream,  who  have  felt  the  clutch 
of  your  own  chimera.  It  is  made  up  of  those 
to  whom  you  have  promised  a  stronger  and  more 
beautiful  life,  to  whom  you  have  announced  the 
world's  transfiguration  by  the  miracle  of  a  new  art. 
They  are  the  many,  many  whom  your  hope  and  joy 
have  carried  away.  They  have  heard  that  you  are 
going  to  speak  in  Venice,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  in 
one  of  the  most  glorious  places  on  earth.  They 
are  going  to  see  and  hear  you  for  the  first  time, 
surrounded  by  the  magnificence  that  seems  to  them 
the  only  fitting  frame  to  your  nature.  The  old 
Palace  of  the  Doges,  that  has  slept  in  darkness  for 
so    long,   is    suddenly    reillumined    and    revivified. 


36  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

In  their  eyes  it  is  you  alone  who  have  had  the 
power  of  relighting  its  torches.  Do  you  not  under- 
stand their  expectations?  And  does  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  you  ought  to  speak  for  them  alone?  You 
can  carry  out  the  condition  you  just  laid  down  for 
him  who  speaks  to  a  multitude,  you  can  stir  up 
a  vehement  emotion  in  their  souls  that  shall  turn 
them  towards  the  Ideal  and  hold  them  there  for  ever. 
For  how  many  of  them,  Stelio,  you  might  make  this 
Venetian  night  unforgettable  !  " 

Stelio  laid  his  hand  on  the  prematurely  bent 
shoulders  of  the  mystic  doctor  and  smilingly  re- 
peated the  words  of  Petrarch :  **  Non  ego  loquar 
omnibus  sed  tibi,  sed  mihi  et  his."  .  .  . 

The  eyes  of  his  unknown  disciples  shone  within 
him;  and  with  perfect  clearness  he  now  felt  within 
himself,  like  a  tuneful  modulation,  the  sound  of  his 
own  exordium. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  added  merrily,  turning  to  Piero 
Martello,  "  to  rouse  a  tempest  in  this  sea  would  be  a 
much  more  stirring  thing." 

They  were  standing  near  the  corner  column  of  the 
portico,  in  contact  with  the  noisy,  unanimous  crowd 
gathered  in  the  Piazzetta  that  prolonged  itself  towards 
the  Zecca,  was  engulfed  near  the  Procuratie,  barri- 
caded the  black  tower,  occupied  every  space  like 
a  formless  wave,  communicated  its  living  warmth 
to  the  marble  of  the  columns  and  the  walls  against 
which  it  pressed  in  its  continual  overflowing.  Now 
and  then  a  greater  outcry  would  come  from  the 
distance,  at  the  further  end  of  the  Piazza,  growing 
in  volume  until  it  burst  quite  close  to  them  like 
a  clap  of  thunder;   then  it  would  dwindle  until  it 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       37 

expired  beside  them  like  a  murmur.  The  upper 
outline  of  the  arches,  the  loggias,  the  spires,  and 
the  cupolas  of  the  golden  Basilica,  the  attics  of 
the  Loggetta,  the  entablatures  of  the  Biblioteca 
were  shining  with  numberless  little  lights,  and  the 
high  pyramid  of  the  Campanile,  twinkling  together 
with  the  silent  constellations  in  the  bosom  of  night, 
conjured  up  for  the  multitude  drunk  with  its  own 
noise  the  immensity  of  the  silent  heavens,  the 
boatman  at  the  far  end  of  the  laguna,  to  whom  this 
light  must  seem  a  new  kind  of  signal,  the  cadence 
of  a  solitary  oar  disturbing  the  reflection  of  the  stars 
in  the  water,  the  holy  peace  closed  in  by  the  walls  of 
some  island  convent. 

"  To-night  I  should  like  to  be  for  the  first  time  with 
a  woman  whom  I  desired  on  a  floating  bed  some- 
where beyond  the  Gardens,  towards  the  Lido,"  said 
Paris  Eglano,  the  erotic  poet,  a  fair,  beardless  youth 
who  had  a  handsome  and  voracious  red  mouth  in 
contrast  to  the  almost  angelic  delicacy  of  his  features. 
"  In  an  hour's  time  Venice  will  offer  some  Nero-like 
lover  hidden  in  some  gondola-cabin  the  Dionysian 
spectacle  of  a  city  that  has  been  set  on  fire  by  its 
own  delirium." 

Stelio  smiled  as  he  noticed  to  what  extent  those 
who  approached  him  were  steeped  in  his  own  es- 
sence, and  how  deeply  the  seal  of  his  own  style  had 
stamped  itself  on  those  intellects.^yThe  image  of 
La  Foscarina  flashed  on  his  desire,  La  Foscarina  as 
she  was :  poisoned  by  art,  laden  with  voluptuous 
learning,  with  the  savours  of  maturity  and  of  cor- 
ruption in  her  eloquent  mouth,  with  the  dryness  of  a 
vain  fever  in  those  hands  that  had  pressed  out  the 


38  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

substance  of  all  deceitful  fruits,  with  the  traces  of  a 
hundred  masks  on  that  face  that  had  simulated  the 
fury  of  mortal  passions.  It  was  thus  he  pictured 
her  to  his  desire,  and  his  pulse  quickened  at  the 
thought  that  before  long  he  would  see  her  emerging 
from  the  crowd  as  from  an  element  by  which  she  was 
enslaved,  and  would  draw  from  her  look  the  neces- 
sary intoxication. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said  to  his  friends,  ready  now ; 
"  it  is  time." 

The  cannon  announced  that  the  Queen  had  left 
the  residence.  A  long  quiver  ran  along  the  living 
human  mass,  like  that  which  precedes  a  squall  at 
sea.  From  the  shore  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  a 
rocket  darted  up  with  a  vehement  hiss,  rose  straight 
in  the  air  like  a  stem  of  fire,  scattered  a  rose  of  fire 
at  its  summit,  then  bent  downwards,  dwindled,  dis- 
persed in  trembling  sparks,  died  out  on  the  water 
with  a  dull  crackling.  And  the  joyous  acclamation 
that  greeted  the  beautiful  Queen,  the  united  cry  of 
love  echoed  by  the  marbles  and  repeating  her  name, 
— the  name  of  the  white  starry  flower  of  the  rocket 
that  had  the  pure  pearl  for  its  meaning,  —  all  this 
summoned  up  in  Stelio's  mind  the  pomp  of  the 
ancient  Promissione,  the  triumphant  procession  of  the 
art  that  accompanied  the  new  Dogaressa  to  the  ducal 
palace ;  the  immense  wave  of  joy  on  which  Morosina 
Grimani,  resplendent  in  her  gold,  soared  to  her  throne, 
while  all  the  arts  bowed  down  to  her  laden  with  gifts. 

"  If  the  Queen  loves  your  books,"  said  Francesco 
de  Lizo,  "  she  will  wear  all  her  pearls  to-night.  Yoti 
will  find  yourself  in  a  labyrinth  of  precious  stones, 
all  the  heirlooms  of  the  patricians  of  Venice." 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       39 

"Look,  Stelio,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,"  said 
Daniele  Glauro,  "  there  is  a  group  of  your  devotees 
awaiting  your  passage." 

Stelio  paused  at  the  well  indicated  by  La  Foscarina, 
and  bent  over  its  bronze  rim,  feeling  the  carved  out- 
lines of  its  cariatides  against  his  knees,  and  discern- 
ing in  its  deep,  dark  mirror  the  vague  reflection  of 
the  far-off  stars.  For  a  few  seconds  his  soul  isolated 
itself,  grew  deaf  to  surrounding  voices,  withdrew  into 
the  circle  of  shadow  whence  came  a  slight  chill  re- 
vealing the  dumb  presence  of  water.  The  fatigue 
brought  on  by  his  state  of  tension  made  itself  felt, 
and  with  it  a  desire  to  be  elsewhere,  an  indistinct 
need  of  going  beyond  even  the  ecstasy  that  the 
night  hours  were  to  bring  him,  and  in  the  last  ex- 
treme depth  of  his  being  the  consciousness  of  having 
there  a  secret  soul  that,  like  the  mirror  of  water,  re- 
mained strange  to  all  things,  motionless  and  intangible. 

"  What  is  it  you  see?"  said  Piero  Martello,  he  too 
bending  over  the  edge,  worn  by  the  ropes  of  the 
pitchers  that  had  been  lowered  down  over  it  for 
centuries. 

"  The  face  of  Truth,"  answered  the  master. 

In  the  rooms  surrounding  the  Hall  of  the  Greater 
Council,  once  inhabited  by  the  Doges,  now  by  the 
pagan  statues  forming  part  of  the  booty  of  ancient 
wars,  Stelio  Effrena  was  awaiting  a  sign  from  the 
master  of  ceremonies  to  appear  on  the  platform.  He 
smiled  calmly  on  the  friends  who  were  talking  to 
him,  but  their  words  reached  his  ears  between  one 
pause  and  another  like  the  intermittent  sounds  that 
wind  brings    from  afar.      Now  and   then   he  would 


40  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

approach  one  of  the  statues  with  an  involuntary 
movement  as  if  seeking  some  frail  spot  where  he 
might  break  it,  or  bend  intently  over  a  medal  as  if  to 
read  there  some  sign  impossible  to  decipher.  But 
his  eyes  were  sightless,  being  turned  inwards  to  that 
region  where  the  accumulated  powers  of  his  will 
called  up  the  silent  forms  which  his  voice  would  pres- 
ently raise  to  perfection  of  verbal  music.  His  being 
contracted  under  the  effort  of  bringing  the  represen- 
tation of  the  singular  feeling  that  possessed  him  to 
the  highest  degree  of  intensity.  Since  he  was  going 
to  speak  only  of  himself  and  his  own  world,  he  would 
at  least  gather  into  one  ideal  image  the  more  resplen- 
dent qualities  of  his  art,  thus  showing  those  who  fol- 
lowed him  what  an  invincible  force  it  was  that  hurried 
him  through  life.  Once  more  he  would  prove  to  them 
how,  in  order  to  obtain  victory  over  man  and  circum- 
stance, there  is  no  other  way  but  that  of  constantly 
feeding  one's  own  exaltation  and  magnifying  one's 
own  dream  of  beauty  or  of  power. 

As  he  bent  over  a  medal  of  Pisanello's  he  felt  the 
pulse  of  his  thought  beating  with  incredible  rapidity 
against  his  burning  temples. 

"  Do  you  see,  Stelio,"  said  Daniele  Glauro,  drawing 
him  on  one  side  with  that  pious  reverence  that  veiled 
his  voice  whenever  he  spoke  of  those  things  which 
made  up  his  religion,  — "  do  you  see  how  the  myste- 
rious affinities  of  art  are  working  upon  you,  and  how 
your  spirit,  about  to  manifest  itself,  is  being  led  by 
an  infallible  instinct  in  the  midst  of  so  many  forms 
towards  the  one  model  or  footprint  of  the  highest  and 
most  accurate  expression  of  style.  Through  the  ne- 
cessity of  coining  your  own  idea,  you  are  brought 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       41 

to  bend  over  a  medal  of  Pisanello's;  you  come  in 
conjunction  with  the  sign  of  one  who  is  among  the 
greatest  styHsts  that  have  appeared  in  the  world ;  the 
most  frankly  Hellenic  soul  of  the  whole  Renaissance. 
And  your  brow  at  once  becomes  marked  by  a  ray  of 
light." 

On  the  bronze  was  the  effigy  of  a  young  man  with 
fair,  waving  hair,  imperial  profile,  and  Apollo-like  neck. 
His  was  so  perfect  a  type  of  elegance  and  vigour 
that  the  imagination  could  not  picture  him  in  life  ex- 
cept as  entirely  exempt  from  all  decadence,  change- 
less for  all  eternity.  Dux  equitum  prcestatis  Mala- 
testa  Novellus  Cesencs  dominus.  Opus  Pisani  pictoris. 
And  close  to  it  lay  another  medal  by  the  same  hand, 
bearing  the  Q^gy  of  a  virgin  with  narrow  bosom, 
swan-like  neck,  and  hair  drawn  back  as  if  it  were  a 
heavy  bag,  with  a  high  receding  forehead  that  seemed 
already  vowed  to  the  halo  of  the  blessed ;  a  vessel  ol 
purity  for  ever  sealed,  hard,  precise,  and  clear  as  the 
diamond,  an  adamantine  pyx  enshrining  a  soul  that, 
like  the  Host,  seemed  consecrated  to  sacrifice.  Cici- 
lia  Virgo,  Filia  Johannis  Frencisci  pHmi  Marchionis 
Mantuce. 

"  See,"  said  the  subtle  expert,  pointing  out  the  two 
rare  impressions,  —  "  see  how  Pisanello  has  gathered 
with  an  equally  wonder-working  hand  the  proudest 
flower  of  life  and  the  purest  flower  of  death.  Here 
you  have  the  image  of  profane  desire  and  the  image 
of  sacred  aspiration  in  the  same  metal,  both  fixed  by 
the  same  idealism  of  style.  Don't  you  recognise  in 
them  the  analogies  that  unite  this  form  of  art  to  your 
own  art?  When  your  Persephone  picks  the  luscious 
fruit  of  the  infernal  pomegranate,  there  is  also  some- 


42  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

thing  mystic  in  her  fine  gesture  of  desire,  because  In 
breaking  it  to  eat  the  grains  she  unconsciously  de- 
termines her  fate.  The  shadow  of  mystery,  therefore, 
accompanies  her  sensuous  act.  This  reveals  the  char- 
acter of  your  whole  work.  No  sensuality  is  more 
ardent  than  yours,  yet  your  senses  are  so  sharpened 
that,  while  enjoying  the  appearance,  they  penetrate  to 
the  greater  depths  until  they  come  upon  the  great 
mystery,  and  shudder.  Your  vision  prolongs  itself 
beyond  the  veil  on  which  life  has  painted  the  volup- 
tuous images  that  give  you  pleasure.  Thus,  concili- 
ating in  yourself  that  which  seems  irreconcilable, 
blending  without  effort  the  two  terms  of  an  antithesis, 
you  are  setting  the  example  of  a  complete  and  ultra- 
powerful  life.  You  should  make  this  felt  to  them 
that  listen  to  you,  because  it  is  this,  above  all,  that 
should  be  recognised  for  the  sake  of  your  glory." 

He  had  celebrated  the  imaginary  marriage  of  the 
proud  Malatesta,  leader  of  knights,  and  the  blessed 
Mantuan  virgin,  Cecilia  Gonzaga,  with  the  faith  of  a 
pious  priest  at  the  altar.  Stelio  loved  him  for  this 
faith ;  loved  him,  too,  because  in  no  other  man  had  he 
ever  felt  so  deep  and  sincere  a  belief  in  the  reality  of 
the  poetic  world,  and  because  his  own  consciousness 
often  found  some  revealing  expression  in  him  and 
his  comments  often  threw  unforeseen  light  on  his  own 
work. 

"  Here  comes  La  Foscarina  with  Donatella  Arvale," 
announced  Francesco  de  Lizo,  who  was  watching  the 
crowd  that  came  up  the  Censor's  Staircase  and  grew 
denser  in  the  large  hall. 

Once  more  distress  took  hold  of  Stelio  Effrena. 
He  could  hear  the  murmur  of  the  multitude  ming- 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       43 

ling  in  his  ears  with  the  throb  of  his  arteries  as 
in  some  indefinite  distance,  and  Perdita's  last  words 
came  back  to  him  above  that  roar. 

The  murmur  rose  again,  then  dwindled,  and  ceased 
altogether  as  with  a  light,  sure  tread  he  ascended  the 
steps  of  the  platform.  Turning  towards  the  crowd 
he  saw  for  the  first  time  the  formidable  monster  with 
the  numberless  human  faces  staring  in  his  dazzled 
eyes  from  among  the  gold  and  sombre  purples  of  the 
great  hall. 

A  sudden  leap  of  pride  helped  him  to  master  him- 
self. He  bowed  to  the  Queen  and  to  Donna  Andri- 
ana  Duodo ;  both  threw  him  the  same  twin  smiles  as 
from  the  gliding  barge  on  the  Grand  Canal.  His 
glance  sought  La  Foscarina  in  the  glitter  of  the  first 
rows,  travelled  to  the  back  of  the  assembly,  where 
only  a  dark  zone  dotted  with  pale  spots  appeared. 
The  silent,  expectant  multitude  appeared  to  him  in 
the  image  of  a  gigantic  many-eyed  chimera,  its  bosom 
covered  with  shining  scales,  stretching  its  blackness 
under  the  enormous  scrolls  of  the  rich,  heavy  ceiling 
that  hung  over  it  like  a  suspended  treasure. 

Splendid  indeed  was  that  chimeric  bosom  on  which 
necklaces  glittered,  that  had  certainly  flashed  before 
under  that  same  ceiling  on  the  night  of  some  coro- 
nation festival.  The  diadem  and  ornaments  of  the 
Queen  and  her  many  pearl  necklaces,  graduated 
drops  of  light  that  suggested  a  miraculous  falling  in 
grains  of  a  smile  just  about  to  break  out;  the  dark 
emeralds  of  Andriana  Duodo,  originally  torn  from  the 
hilt  of  a  scimitar;  the  rubies  of  Giustiniana  Memo, 
set  after  the  manner  of  carnations  by  the  inimitable 


44  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

workmanship  of  Vettor  Camelio ;  the  sapphires  of 
Lucrezia  PriuH,  taken  from  the  heels  of  the  high  san- 
dals on  which  the  Most  Serene  Zilia  had  stepped  to 
her  throne  on  the  day  of  her  triumph;  the  beryls  of 
Orsetta  Contarini,  so  delicately  set  in  opaque  gold  by 
the  artist  hand  of  Silvestro  Grifo ;  the  turquoises  of 
Zenobia  Corner,  turned  strangely  pale  by  the  myste- 
rious disease  that  had  changed  them  one  night  as 
they  lay  on  the  moist  bosom  of  the  Lusignana  among 
the  pleasures  of  Asolo,  the  proudest  jewels  that  had 
adorned  the  old-time  festivals  of  the  Sea-City, —  flashed 
with  renewed  fire  on  the  chimera's  bosom,  and  from 
it  a  tepid  exhalation  of  feminine  skin  and  breath  went 
up  to  Stelio.  The  rest  of  that  shapeless,  strangely 
spotted  body  stretched  backwards  into  an  appendage 
something  like  a  tail,  between  the  two  gigantic 
spheres  that  recalled  to  the  memory  of  the  image 
maker  the  two  bronze  spheres  on  which  the  blind- 
folded monster  presses  its  leonine  claws  in  the  Alle- 
gory of  Giambellino.  And  that  accumulation  of 
blind  animal  life,  void  of  all  thought  before  him  who 
in  that  hour  was  alone  to  think,  gifted  with  the  same 
inert  fascination  possessed  by  enigmatic  idols,  cov- 
ered by  its  own  silence  as  by  a  shield  capable  of 
receiving  and  repulsing  any  vibration,  waited  for  the 
air  to  palpitate  under  his  first  dominating  word. 

Stelio  Efifrena  measured  the  silence  in  which  his 
first  word  should  fall.  As  his  voice  rose  to  his  lips, 
an  effort  of  will  leading  it  and  strengthening  it  against 
his  instinctive  emotion,  he  caught  sight  of  La  Foscarina 
standing  against  the  iron  railing  round  the  celestial 
sphere.  The  head  of  the  tragic  actress  rose  from  her 
unadorned  neck,  and  the  purity  of  her  bare  shoulders 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       45 

above  the  orbit  of  the  signs  of  the  zodiac.  Stelio 
admired  the  art  of  that  apparition.  Fixing  his  own 
on  those  far-off  adoring  eyes,  he  began  speaking  very 
slowly,  as  if  the  rhythm  of  the  oars  was  still  in  his 
ears. 

"  One  afternoon  not  long  ago,  returning  from  the 
Gardens  along  the  warm  bank  of  the  Schiavoni,  that 
must  often  have  seemed  to  some  wandering  poet  like 
I  know  not  what  golden  magic  bridge  stretching  out 
over  a  sea  of  light  and  silence  to  some  infinite  dream 
of  beauty,  I  thought,  or  rather  I  stood  by  and  watched 
my  own  thoughts  as  I  would  an  intimate  spectacle,  — 
I  thought  of  the  nuptial  alliance  of  Autumn  and 
Venice  under  those  skies. 

"  A  sense  of  life  was  diffused  everywhere ;  a  sense  of 
life  made  up  of  passionate  expectation  and  restrained 
ardour,  that  surprised  me  by  its  vehemence,  but  yet 
could  not  seem  new  to  me,  because  I  had  already 
found  it  gathered  in  some  belt  of  shadow  under  the 
almost  deathly  immobility  of  summer,  and  I  had  also 
felt  it  here  vibrating  now  and  then  like  a  mysterious 
pulsation  under  the  strange,  feverish  odour  of  the 
waters.  Thus,  I  thought,  this  pure  City  of  Art  truly 
aspires  to  the  supreme  condition  of  that  beauty  that 
is  an  annual  return  in  her  as  is  the  giving  forth  of 
flowers  to  the  forest.  She  tends  to  reveal  herself 
in  a  full  harmony  as  if  she  still  carried  in  herself, 
powerful  and  conscious,  that  desire  of  perfection 
from  which  she  was  born  and  formed  through  the 
ages  like  some  divine  creature.  Under  the  motion- 
less fires  of  a  summer  sky  she  seemed  pulseless  and 
breathless,  dead  indeed  in  her  green  waters ;  but  my 
feeling   did    not   deceive    me   when    I   divined    hef 


46  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

secretly  labouring  under  a  spirit  of  life  that  would 
prove  sufficiently  powerful  to  renew  the  highest  of 
older  miracles. 

"  This  I  thought  as  I  stood  by  and  witnessed  the 
splendid  spectacle  that  my  eyes  were  made  capable 
of  contemplating  by  a  peculiar  gift  of  love  and  poetry, 
seeming  to  change  their  faculty  of  sight  into  a  deep 
and  lasting  vision.  .  .  .  But  how  shall  I  ever  commu- 
nicate to  those  who  hear  me  my  vision  of  joy  and 
beauty?  There  can  be  no  dawn  and  no  sunset 
to  equal  such  an  hour  of  light  on  the  waters  and 
among  the  stones.  And  no  sudden  appearing  of  a 
beloved  woman  in  a  wood  in  spring  could  be  in- 
toxicating like  the  unexpected  revelation  in  full  day- 
light of  the  heroic  and  voluptuous  city,  bringing  to 
my  arms,  to  be  crushed  there,  the  richest  dream  ever 
dreamed  by  a  Latin  soul." 

The  voice  of  the  speaker,  clear,  penetrating,  almost 
icy  at  first,  seemed  to  have  been  suddenly  warmed 
by  the  invisible  sparks  that  doubtless  were  wrung 
from  his  brain  by  the  effort  of  improvisation  governed 
by  the  acute  vigilance  of  his  fastidious  ear.  As  the 
words  flowed  without  impediment,  and  the  rhythmic 
line  of  his  periods  closed  round  them  like  a  figure 
drawn  at  one  stroke  by  a  bold  hand,  his  listeners 
could  feel  under  that  harmonious  fluidity  the  excess 
of  the  tension  tormenting  his  spirit,  and  were  held 
captive  by  it  as  by  one  of  those  savage  Circensian 
games  in  which  all  the  energies  of  the  athlete  are 
made  manifest,  the  vibration  of  his  sinews  and  the 
swollen  tissue  of  his  arteries.  They  could  feel  how 
much  was  actual,  warm,  and  alive  in  the  thoughts  so 
expressed,  and  their  enjoyment  was  greater  because 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       47 

so  unlocked  for,  all  having  expected  from  that  un- 
tiring seeker  after  perfection  the  studied  reading  of  a 
laboriously  composed  discourse.  With  deep  emotion 
his  devotees  witnessed  the  audacious  test,  as  if  the 
mysterious  process  whence  the  forms  had  arisen  that 
had  held  out  to  them  so  many  gifts  of  joy  was  being 
laid  bare  before  them.  And  that  first  emotion  diffused 
by  contagion  and  indefinitely  multiplied  by  numbers 
became  unanimous,  and  flowed  back  to  him  who  had 
produced  it,  threatening  to  overcome  him. 

It  was  the  expected  peril.  He  swayed  as  if  under 
the  shock  of  a  wave  too  strong  for  him.  And  for 
some  seconds  a  thick  darkness  filled  his  brain,  the 
light  of  his  thought  went  out  like  a  torch  at  the 
breath  of  some  irresistible  wind,  his  eyes  clouded  as 
in  the  early  stage  of  faintness.  He  felt  how  great 
the  shame  of  defeat  would  be  if  he  yielded  to  that 
bewilderment.  And  in  that  darkness,  with  a  kind  of 
sharp  percussion,  as  of  steel  on  flint,  his  will  created 
the  new  spark. 

With  a  look  and  gesture  he  lifted  the  eye  of  the 
crowd  up  to  the  masterpiece  spreading  over  the  ceil- 
ing of  the  hall,  a  kind  of  sun-given  radiance. 

"Thus  I  am  sure,"  he  exclaimed,  — "thus  the  city 
appeared  to  Veronese  while  he  was  seeking  within 
himself  the  image  of  the  triumphant  Queen.  Ah,  I 
am  sure  he  must  have  trembled  to  his  remotest  fibres 
and  bent  his  knee  like  one  stricken  and  bewildered 
by  a  miracle,  prostrating  himself  in  adoration,  and 
when  he  tried  to  manifest  his  wonder  to  mankind 
and  to  paint  her  here,  he,  the  prodigal  artist  who 
seems  to  have  collected  in  himself  all  the  imagina- 
tions of  the  most  unbridled  satraps,  the  magnificent 


48  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

poet  whose  soul  was  like  that  Lydian  river  called  by 
the  harmonious  Greeks  Chrysorroes,  from  whose  gold- 
yielding  springs  a  whole  dynasty  of  kings  came 
forth  laden  with  wealth,  —  he,  Veronese,  scattered 
in  profusion  gold,  jewels,  amaranth,  purple,  ermine, 
all  that  is  sumptuous  elsewhere,  but  he  could  only 
picture  the  glorious  face  in  a  halo  of  shadow. 

*'  We  should  unite  in  exalting  Veronese  if  only 
for  that  veil  of  shadow!  All  the  mystery  and  the 
fascination  of  Venice  are  in  that  shadow,  small  yet 
infinite,  composed  of  things  living  but  unknowable, 
gifted  with  the  portentous  virtue  of  the  fabulous  cav- 
erns where  gems  had  eyes  to  see,  and  where  men 
have  found  coolness  and  ardour  at  the  same  time  in 
one  inexpressibly  ambiguous  sensation.  We  must 
praise  Veronese  for  this.  The  giving  a  human  as- 
pect to  his  representation  of  the  queenly  city  has 
enabled  him  to  grasp  its  essential  spirit,  which  is 
only  symbolically  an  inextinguishable  flame  seen 
through  a  veil  of  water.  And  I  know  of  one  whose 
spirit,  having  been  long  saturated  with  these  things, 
withdrew  it  enriched  by  a  new  power,  and  hence- 
forth treated  his  art  and  his  life  with  a  more  ardent 
touch." 

Was  he  not  himself  that  one?  He  seemed  to  re- 
cover all  his  assurance  and  to  feel  himself  out  of 
danger  after  this  assertion,  master  of  his  thoughts 
and  words,  capable  of  drawing  into  the  circle  of  his 
dream  the  giant  chimera  of  the  bosom  covered  with 
glittering  scales,  the  elusive  and  versatile  monster 
from  whose  sides  emerged  the  tragic  muse,  her  head 
raised  above  the  belt  of  constellations. 

Obeying  his  gesture,  the  numberless  faces  turned 


^ 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       49 


to  the  apotheosis.  The  unveiled  eyes  gazed  won- 
deringly  at  the  marvel,  as  if  they  saw  it  for  the  first 
time,  or  under  a  hitherto  unknown  aspect.  The 
wide,  bare  shoulders  of  the  woman  with  the  golden 
helmet  shone  on  the  cloud  with  strongly  accentuated 
muscular  life  that  made  it  as  tempting  as  a  palpable 
body.  And  from  that  living  nudity,  conqueror  of 
time  that  had  obscured  beneath  her  the  heroic 
images  of  sieges  and  battles,  a  voluptuous  charm 
seemed  to  emanate,  made  sweeter  by  the  breath  of 
the  autumn  night  floating  through  the  open  windows 
that  stirred  it  as  it  stirred  the  wave  of  perfume  hov- 
ering round  the  fragrant  rose-bushes,  while  the  prin- 
cesses from  on  high,  bending  over  the  balustrades 
between  the  two  spiral  columns,  inclined  their  burn- 
ing faces  and  their  opulent  bosoms  towards  their 
latest  worldly  sisters  in  the  hall  below. 

Under  this  incantation,  the  poet  began  tossing  his 
periods  to  his  audience,  harmonising  them  like  lyric 
stanzas. 

"  It  was  indeed  some  such  flame  which  I  felt 
yesterday  rising  to  extreme  vehemence  and  confer- 
ring on  the  beauty  of  Venice  a  power  of  expression 
never  before  seen..\  The  whole  city  kindled  with 
desire  before  my  eyes,  and  throbbing  with  expecta- 
tion within  its  thousand  girdles  of  green  like  a  woman 
in  love  awaiting  her  hour  of  joy. ;  She  held  her 
marble  arms  out  to  the  wild  autumn  whose  per- 
fumed breath  reached  her  from  the  delicious  death 
of  the  distant  landscape,  and  watched  the  light  va- 
pours that  rose  from  the  confines  of  the  lagoon  draw- 
ing near  her,  silent,  like  furtive  messages.  Intently 
she  listened  to  the  slightest  sounds  in  the  silence  she 


50  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

herself  had  made,  and  the  breath  of  the  wind  flying 
through  her  rare  gardens  had  a  musical  continuation 
that  prolonged  it  outside  the  enclosures.  A  kind  of 
stupor  gathered  round  the  solitary  imprisoned  trees 
that  were  changing  colour,  becoming  resplendent  like 
some  burning  things.  The  dry  leaf  that  had  fallen 
on  the  worn  stone  of  the  bank  shone  like  some  pre- 
cious thing;  at  the  summit  of  the  wall  adorned  with 
fair  lichens  the  pomegranate,  swollen  with  maturity, 
burst  suddenly  like  a  beautiful  mouth  that  breaks 
open  by  an  impulse  of  cordial  laughter.  A  boat 
passed,  slow  and  wide,  filled  with  bunches  like  a 
wine-press  spreading  through  the  air,  and  above  the 
waters  with  their  tangle  of  sea-weed,  the  intoxication 
of  the  vintage  season,  and  a  vision  of  solitary  vineyards 
full  of  young  men  and  women  singing.  A  deep 
eloquence  spoke  from  all  surrounding  objects,  as  if 
invisible  signs  adhered  to  visible  aspects  and  all  were 
living  by  some  divine  Hellenic  privilege  in  the  higher 
truth  of  art. 

"  Surely,  then,"  I  thought,  —  "  surely  there  must  be 
in  the  city  of  stone  and  water,  as  in  the  spirit  of  the 
pure  artist,  a  spontaneous  and  constant  aspiration 
to  ideal  harmonies.  A  kind  of  fictitious  rhythmical 
imagination  seems  to  spaciously  elaborate  its  repre- 
sentations, conforming  them  to  an  idea,  as  it  were, 
and  directing  them  to  a  premeditated  end.  Her 
marvellous  hands  seem  to  weave  her  light  and 
shadows  into  a  continual  work  of  beauty;  she 
dreams  over  her  work,  and  from  her  own  dream, 
transfiguring  the  heritage  of  centuries,  she  draws 
that  tissue  of  inimitable  allegories  by  which  she  is 
covered.      And,   because    poetry  alone  is  truth,  he 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       51 

who  knows  how  to  contemplate  it  and  draw  it  into 
himself  by  the  virtue  of  thought  will  be  near  know- 
ing the  secret  of  victory  over  life." 

He  had  sought  the  eyes  of  Daniele  Glauro  while 
uttering  the  last  words,  and  had  seen  them  shine 
with  joy  under  the  vast,  thoughtful  brow  that  seemed 
swollen  by  the  presence  of  an  unborn  world.  The 
mystic  doctor  was  there  with  his  whole  legion,  with 
some  of  those  unknown  disciples  whom  he  had  de- 
scribed to  Stelio  as  eager  and  anxious,  full  of  faith 
and  expectation,  panting  to  break  through  the  nar- 
rowness of  their  daily  servitude,  and  to  know  some 
free  ecstasy  of  joy  or  pain.  Stelio  saw  them  there, 
serried  together  in  a  group,  like  a  nucleus  of  com- 
pressed forces,  leaning  against  the  great  reddish 
bookcases  whose  numberless  volumes  of  forgotten 
and  inert  science  lay  buried.  He  could  tell  them  by 
their  intent,  animated  faces,  their  long,  thick  hair, 
their  mouths  that  were  either  opened  in  child-like 
stupor  or  tightened  with  a  sort  of  violence  full  of 
sensitiveness,  their  light  or  dark  eyes  to  which  the 
breath  of  his  words  seemed  to  bring  alternate  lights 
and  shadows  like  the  passing  of  a  breeze  over  a  bed 
of  delicate  flowers.  He  seemed  to  be  holding  their 
united  souls  in  his  hands,  able  to  agitate  one  or  the 
other,  and  crush  it,  or  tear  it  and  burn  it  as  if  it  were 
only  some  light  banner.  Whilst  his  spirit  stretched 
and  relaxed  in  its  continual  discharge,  there  still  re- 
mained to  him  an  extraordinary  lucidity  of  exterior 
analysis,  a  kind  of  separate  faculty  of  material  obser- 
vation, that  seemed  to  become  ever  more  acute  and 
more  sharply  defined  as  his  eloquence  warmed  and 
quickened.     Little  by  little  he  felt  his  effort  becom- 


52  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

ing  easier  and  the  efficacy  of  his  will  being  supple- 
mented by  an  energy  free  and  obscure  as  an  instinct 
that  rose  from  the  depths  of  his  unconsciousness, 
operating  by  an  occult  process  impossible  to  gauge. 
Association  reminded  him  of  the  extraordinary  mo- 
ments in  which  —  in  the  silence  and  intellectual  heat 
of  his  remote  chamber  —  his  hand  had  written  an 
immortal  verse  that  had  seemed  to  him  not  born 
of  his  brain,  but  dictated  by  an  impetuous  deity  to 
which  his  unconscious  organ  had  obeyed  like  a  blind 
instrument.  A  not  unsimilar  miracle  was  now  taking 
place  within  him,  surprising  his  ear  by  the  unforeseen 
cadence  of  the  words  that  fell  from  his  lips.  An 
almost  divine  mystery  was  unfolding  through  the 
communion  into  which  his  soul  had  entered  with  the 
soul  of  the  crowd.  Something  greater  and  stronger 
was  adding  itself  to  the  feeling  he  had  about  his  own 
person.  And  at  every  moment  it  seemed  that  his 
voice  was  acquiring  a  higher  virtue. 

He  saw  the  ideal  picture  complete  and  living  within 
himself,  and  his  manifestation  of  it  in  the  language  of 
poetry  was  after  the  manner  of  the  master-colourists 
who  reign  in  that  place.  The  luxuriance  of  Veronese, 
the  ardour  of  Tintoretto,  was  in  his  speech. 

"  And  the  hour  was  approaching;  the  hour  of  the 
supreme  feast  was  at  hand.  There  was  an  unusual 
light  in  the  heavens  coming  from  the  far-away  hori- 
zon, as  if  the  wild  bridegroom  were  waving  his  purple 
banner  as  he  drew  nearer  in  his  fiery  chariot.  The 
wind  roused  by  his  speed  was  heavy  with  all  the  per- 
fumes of  the  earth,  and  reminded  the  expectant  one 
on  the  water  where  the  vague  sea-locks  floated  of  the 
white,  compact  rose-bushes  that  here  and  there  grew 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       53 

against  the  balustrades  of  the  gardens  overlooking 
the  Brenta,  melting  little  by  little  like  masses  of 
snow.  The  distant  country  seemed  entirely  reflected 
in  the  crystal  of  the  air  as  by  the  fallacious  mirage 
of  the  desert ;  and  that  impression  of  nature  served 
to  magnify  the  rarity  of  the  dream  of  art,  for  no 
autumnal  pageant  of  woods  and  meadows  was  com- 
parable in  the  memory  to  the  divine  life  and  transfig- 
urations of  those  ancient  stones. 

"  Is  not  some  god  coming  to  the  city  who  offers 
herself?  I  asked  of  my  own  spirit,  overcome  by  the 
anxiety  and  desire  of  pleasure  expressed  around  me 
as  if  a  fever  of  infinite  passion  invaded  all  things. 
And  I  called  up  the  most  powerful  artist  to  picture 
that  young,  expected  god  with  proud  form  and  re- 
fulgent colours. 

"  He  was  indeed  coming  !  The  inverted  goblet  of 
the  sky  poured  down  a  stream  of  splendour  that,  at 
first,  seemed  incredible  to  me,  for  it  was  of  a  quality 
richer  even  than  the  richest  light  of  inspired  thought 
or  involuntary  dream.  The  water  was  like  some 
starry  matter  of  an  unknown,  changeable  nature,  sug- 
gesting in  myriads  the  indistinct  images  of  a  fluid 
world.  A  perpetual  quiver  drew  from  it  harmonies 
for  ever  new  by  a  series  of  stupendously  easy  destruc- 
tions and  creations.  Between  the  wonders  of  sky  and 
water  the  stones  that  were  multiform  and  many-souled, 
like  a  forest  or  like  a  people,  the  silent  company  of 
marbles  from  which  the  genius  of  art  has  extracted 
the  occult  conceptions  of  nature,  on  which  time  has 
accumulated  its  mysteries  and  glory  engraved  its 
signs,  along  the  hidden  veins  of  which  the  human 
spirit  rises  towards  the  ideal,  as  the  sap  ascends  to 


54  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  flower  through  the  fibres  of  the  plant,  —  the  mul- 
tiform and  many-souled  stone  constantly  took  on 
some  expression  of  life  so  new  and  intense  that  law 
seemed  destroyed  for  it,  and  its  original  inertness 
flooded  by  a  miraculous  sensibility. 

"  Each  second  after  vibrated  on  these  things 
like  an  unbearable  flash.  From  the  crosses  on  the 
tops  of  the  cupolas  swollen  by  prayer  to  the  slight 
saline  crystals  hanging  under  the  arch  of  the  bridges, 
all  glittered  in  a  supreme  jubilation  of  light.  Like 
the  sentinel  on  the  rampart  throwing  his  sharp  cry 
to  Expectation  quivering  like  a  storm  below  him, 
so  the  golden  angel  from  the  summit  of  the  greater 
tower  at  last  flashed  out  the  announcement. 

"  And  He  appeared.  He  appeared  sitting  on  a 
cloud  as  on  a  chariot  of  fire,  the  long  ends  of  his 
purple  raiment  trailing  behind  him,  imperious  though 
gentle,  his  half-open  lips  full  of  sylvan  murmurs  and 
silences,  his  hair  floating  over  his  strong  neck,  his 
titanic  breast,  hardened  by  the  breath  of  the  forest 
quite  bare.  He  turned  his  youthful  countenance  to 
the  City  Beautiful.  An  indescribable  inhuman  fasci- 
nation emanated  from  that  countenance.  I  know  not 
what  refined  yet  cruel  brutality  that  contrasted  with 
his  deep  eyes  full  of  knowledge  shining  under  heavy 
lids.  His  blood  leapt  and  pulsated  violently  through- 
out his  body  to  the  extreme  joints  of  the  firm  hands 
and  to  the  toes  of  the  nimble  feet ;  and  occult  things 
were  about  his  whole  being,  concealing  joy  as  the 
grape  still  in  flower  conceals  the  wine ;  and  all  the 
tawny  gold  and  purple  that  He  brought  with  him 
were  like  the  raiment  of  his  senses.  .  .  . 

"With  what  passion,  palpitating  under  her  thousand 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       55 

girdles  of  green  and  the  weight  of  her  great  jewels, 
the  City  Beautiful  gave  herself  up  to  the  magnificent 
God !  " 

Lifted  up  in  the  vortex  of  those  words,  the  soul  of 
the  crowd  seemed  to  reach  the  sense  of  Beauty  at 
one  bound,  at  a  height  never  before  attained,  and  to 
stand  surprised  there.  The  poet's  eloquence  was 
seconded  by  the  expression  of  all  that  surrounded 
him;  it  seemed  to  resume  and  continue  the  rhythms 
obeyed  by  all  that  effigied  strength  and  grace ;  it 
seemed  to  sum  up  the  unlimited  concordances  be- 
tween the  forms  created  by  human  art  and  the 
qualities  of  the  natural  atmosphere  that  perpetu- 
ated themselves.  This  was  why  his  voice  had  so 
much  power;  why  his  gesture  so  easily  enlarged  the 
outlines  of  images ;  why  in  every  syllable  he  pro- 
nounced there  was  added  to  the  significance  of  the 
letter  the  suggestive  power  of  sound.  And  it  was 
not  the  effect  of  the  usual  electric  communication 
established  between  speaker  and  audience  only,  but 
of  the  spell  that  held  the  wonderful  edifice  to  its 
foundations  and  that  gathered  extraordinary  vigour 
from  the  unaccustomed  contact  of  that  palpitating 
agglomerated  humanity.  The  pulse  of  the  crowd 
and  the  voice  of  the  poet  seemed  to  restore  their 
own  life  to  those  ancient  walls,  and  to  renew  its  origi- 
nal spirit  in  the  cold  museum  with  its  nucleus  of 
powerful  ideas,  made  concrete  and  organic  in  the 
most  durable  of  substances  to  bear  witness  to  the 
nobility  of  a  race. 

A  splendour  of  youth  almost  divine  fell  on  the 
women,  as  it  might  have  fallen  in  a  sumptuous  al- 
cove;  they  too  had  felt  the  anxiety  of  expectance 


$6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  the  joy  of  surrender,  like  the  City  Beautiful. 
They  were  smiHng  with  vague  languor  as  if  exhausted 
by  a  sensation  that  had  been  too  stirring,  their  bare 
shoulders  emerging  like  flowers  from  their  corollas 
of  gems.  The  emeralds  of  Andriana  Duodo,  the 
rubies  of  Giustiniana  Memo,  the  sapphires  of  Lu- 
crezia  Priuli,  the  beryls  of  Orsetta  Contarini,  the 
turquoises  of  Zenobia  Corner,  all  the  heirlooms  in 
whose  flame  there  was  a  little  more  than  the  mere 
value  of  their  substance,  just  as  in  the  decorations 
of  the  great  hall  there  was  a  little  more  than  even 
the  value  of  art,  seemed  to  throw  on  the  white  faces 
of  the  patrician  women  the  reflection  of  a  joyous, 
shameless  anterior  life,  as  if  awakening  in  them  and 
by  some  secret  virtue  raising  from  the  abyss  the 
souls  of  the  voluptuous  women  who  had  offered  men 
their  bodies  saturated  with  myrrh,  with  musk,  and 
with  amber,  and  to  the  public  their  rouged  uncovered 
breasts. 

As  he  watched  the  bust  of  the  large  many-eyed 
chimera  on  which  the  feathers  of  the  women's 
fans  flapped  softly,  hot  intoxication  swept  over  his 
thoughts,  disquieting  him,  suggesting  words  of  al- 
most carnal  essence,  some  of  those  living  sub- 
stantial words  with  which  he  had  often  touched 
women  as  if  with  caressing  and  inviting  fingers. 
The  multiplied  reverberation  in  himself  of  the  vibra- 
tion produced  by  him  shook  him  so  deeply  that  he 
was  about  to  lose  his  usual  balance.  He  felt  himself 
swinging  above  the  crowd  like  a  concave  and  sono- 
rous body  in  which  the  various  resonances  were 
generated  by  the  action  of  an  indistinct  though 
infaUible  will.     During   the   pauses   he   would    anx- 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       57 

iously  await  the  unforeseen  manifestation  of  that  will, 
while  the  interior  echoes  still  remained  as  of  a  voice 
not  his  own  having  pronounced  words  expressive  of 
thoughts  that  were  new  to  him.  And  that  sky,  and 
that  water,  and  those  marbles,  and  the  autumn  as  he 
had  described  it,  seemed  to  have  no  connection  with 
his  own  late  sensations,  but  to  belong  to  a  world  of 
dreams  of  which  he  had  caught  sight  while  he  was 
speaking  —  in  a  rapid  succession  of  flashes. 

It  surprised  him,  this  unknown  power  that  con- 
verged in  him,  abolishing  the  Hmits  of  his  own 
person  and  conferring  the  fulness  of  a  chorus  on 
his  solitary  voice.  This,  then,  was  the  mysterious 
truce  that  the  revelation  of  beauty  could  bring  to 
the  daily  existence  of  the  breathless  multitude ;  this 
the  mysterious  will  that  could  possess  the  Poet  about 
to  answer  the  multiform  soul  questioning  him  as  to 
the  value  of  life  and  yearning  to  raise  itself,  if  once 
only,  towards  the  eternal  idea.  He  was  only  the 
means  by  which  beauty  held  out  the  divine  gift  of 
oblivion  to  the  men  gathered  in  a  place  consecrated 
by  centuries  of  human  glory.  He  was  only  trans- 
lating in  the  rhythm  of  words  the  visible  language 
with  which  the  ancient  artists  had  already  set  forth 
in  that  very  spot  the  prayer  and  aspiration  of  the 
race.  Those  men  would  now  contemplate  the  world, 
for  an  hour  at  least,  with  different  eyes ;  surely  they 
would  think  and  dream  with  a  different  soul. 

It  was  the  highest  benefit  of  beauty  made  mani- 
fest; it  was  the  victory  of  art,  the  liberator,  over 
the  misery  and  anxiety  and  tedium  of  ordinary 
existence;  it  was  one  of  those  happy  intervals  in 
which  the  stabs  of  necessity  and  pain  seem  to  cease 


58  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  the  clenched  hand  of  destiny  slowly  to  relax  its 
hold.  His  thoughts  overstepped  the  walls  that 
closed  the  palpitating  crowd  into  a  sort  of  heroic 
cycle,  a  zone  of  red  triremes  and  fortified  towers  and 
triumphant  processions.  The  place  seemed  too  nar- 
row now  for  the  exaltation  of  his  new  feeling,  and 
once  again  the  real  crowd  attracted  him,  the  great, 
unanimous  crowd  he  had  seen  outside  and  had  heard 
sending  up  in  the  starry  night  a  clamour  by  which  it 
was  itself  intoxicated  as  by  wine  or  blood. 

And  his  thoughts  went  out  not  only  to  this  but 
to  infinite  other  multitudes.  He  conjured  them  up 
crowded  in  a  theatre,  held  by  a  dominating  idea  of 
truth  and  beauty;  silent  and  intent  before  the  great 
arch  of  the  stage  open  on  some  marvellous  trans- 
figuration of  human  life,  or  frenzied  by  the  sudden 
splendour  radiating  from  an  immortal  phrase.  And 
his  dream  of  higher  Art  as  it  rose  again  showed  him 
mankind  once  more  seized  by  reverence  for  the  poets 
as  for  those  who  alone  can  interrupt  human  anguish 
for  a  while,  assuage  its  thirst,  and  dispense  oblivion. 
And  the  test  he  was  undergoing,  now  seemed  much 
too  slight:  he  felt  himself  capable  of  creating  gigan- 
tic fictions.  And  the  still  formless  work  that  he  was 
nourishing  within  him  leapt  with  a  great  shudder  of 
life  as  he  saw  the  tragic  actress  standing  out  from  the 
sphere  of  constellations,  the  Muse  with  the  diffusing 
voice  who  seemed  to  carry  the  very  frenzy  of  those 
distant  multitudes  silenced  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

Almost  as  if  the  intensity  of  the  life  he  had  lived 
during  the  pause  had  exhausted  him,  there  was  a 
more  subdued  note  in  his  voice  when  he  began 
speaking   again. 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       59 

"  Under  this  image,"  he  resumed, —  "  under  this 
image  so  real  and  evident  to  me  at  the  time  I  saw  it 
that  it  seemed  nearly  tangible,  do  you  not  see  the 
analogies  that  make  it  significant  of  singular  things? 

"  The  mutual  passion  of  Venice  and  Autumn  that 
exalts  the  one  and  the  other  to  the  highest  degree  of 
their  sensuous  beauty  has  its  origin  in  a  deep  affinity; 
for  the  soul  of  Venice,  the  soul  fashioned  for  the  City 
Beautiful  by  its  great  artists  is  autumnal. 

"  The  correspondence  between  the  external  and 
the  interior  spectacle  once  discovered,  my  enjoyment 
found  itself  unspeakably  multiplied.  The  crowd  of 
imperishable  forms  that  peoples  its  churches  and 
palaces  seemed  from  these  latter  to  answer  the  har- 
mony of  daylight  with  a  chord  so  deep  and  powerful 
that  it  soon  became  dominant.  And  —  because  the 
light  of  Heaven  alternates  with  shadows,  but  the  light 
of  Art  lasts  in  the  human  soul  and  cannot  be  extin- 
guished —  when  the  miracle  of  the  hour  ceased  to 
cover  all  those  things,  my  spirit  felt  itself  alone  and 
ecstatic  among  the  splendours  of  an  ideal  autumn. 

"  It  is  under  this  aspect  that  the  artistic  creation 
hemmed  in  between  the  youth  of  Giorgione  and  the 
old  age  of  Tintoretto  appears  to  me.  It  is  purple, 
golden,  rich,  and  expressive,  like  a  pageant  of  the 
earth  under  the  sun's  last  flame.  Whenever  I  con- 
sider the  impetuous  creators  of  so  much  powerful 
beauty  an  image  presents  itself  to  my  mind  drawn 
from  a  fragment  of  Pindar,  —  'When  the  centaurs 
became  acquainted  with  the  virtues  of  wine,  which  is 
sweet  as  honey  and  conquers  men,  they  at  once  ban- 
ished the  white  milk  from  their  tables  and  hastened 
to  partake  of  their  wine  in  silver  horns.'     None  in 


6o  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  world  knew  and  tasted  of  the  wine  of  life  more 
than  they.  They  drew  from  it  a  sort  of  lucid  in- 
toxication that  multiplied  their  power  and  communi- 
cated a  fertilising  energy  to  their  eloquence.  And  in 
the  most  beautiful  of  their  creations  the  violent  throb 
of  their  pulses  seems  to  have  persisted  through  the 
ages,  like  the  very  rhythm  of  Venetian  Art. 

"  How  pure  and  poetic  is  the  sleep  of  the  Virgin 
Ursula  on  her  immaculate  bed !  A  gentle  silence 
hovers  in  the  solitary  room ;  the  habit  of  prayer 
seems  sketched  on  the  pious  lips  of  the  sleeper.  The 
shy  light  of  dawn  pierces  through  the  doors  and  the 
half-open  windows,  pointing  to  the  word  written  on  the 
corner  of  her  pillow.  INFANTIA  is  the  simple  word 
spreading  round  the  maiden's  head,  something  like 
the  freshness  of  morning :  INFANTIA.  The  maiden, 
already  betrothed  to  the  princely  barbarian  and  des- 
tined for  martyrdom,  sleeps  on.  As  she  lies  there 
fervent,  ingenuous,  and  chaste,  does  she  not  seem  the 
image  of  art  such  as  the  precursors  saw  it  in  the 
sincerity  of  their  child-like  eyes?  INFANTIA.  The 
word  calls  up  all  the  forgotten  ones  round  that  pil- 
low, —  Lorenzo  Veneziano  and  Simone  da  Cusighe, 
and  Catarino  and  lacobello,  and  Maestro  Paolo  and 
Giambono,  and  Semitecolo  and  Antonio,  Andrea  and 
Quirizio  da  Murano,  and  the  whole  of  the  laborious 
family  by  which  colour,  afterwards  the  rival  of  fire, 
was  prepared  in  the  burning  island  of  furnaces. 

"  But  would  not  they  themselves  have  uttered  a 
cry  of  surprise  had  they  seen  the  wave  of  blood 
that  poured  from  the  breast  of  the  Virgin  when 
pierced  by  the  handsome  pagan  archer?  Blood  so 
crimson  flowing  from  a  maiden  nurtured  on  *  white 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       6i 

milk ' !  It  is  a  very  orgy  of  slaughter ;  the  archers 
have  brought  their  finest  arms  to  it,  their  richest 
apparel,  their  most  elegant  gestures,  as  to  a  festival. 
The  golden-haired  barbarian  aiming  his  dart  at  the 
martyr  with  so  proud  an  act  of  grace  seems  the 
youth  Eros  chrysalised  and  wingless. 

"  This  same  agreeable  slayer  of  innocence  will 
presently  give  himself  up  to  the  enchantment  of 
music,  and  laying  aside  his  bow  will  dream  a  dream 
of  infinite  pleasure. 

"  Well  may  Giorgione  be  considered  as  the  one 
to  infuse  the  new  soul  into  him,  and  to  kindle 
it  with  an  implacable  desire.  The  music  that 
enchants  him  is  not  the  melody  of  angelic  lutes 
diffused  between  the  arches  that  curve  over  radiant 
thrones,  or  dwindling  into  serene  distances  in  the 
visions  of  the  third  Bellini,  It  is  still  at  the  touch  of 
religious  hands  that  it  rises  from  the  harpsichord, 
but  the  world  it  awakens  is  full  of  a  joy  and  of  a  sad- 
ness in  which  sin  lies  hidden. 

"  Whoever  has  looked  at  the  Concerto  with  saga- 
cious eyes  has  fathomed  an  extraordinary  and  irrevo- 
cable moment  of  the  Venetian  soul.  By  means  of 
the  harmony  of  colour,  the  power  of  significance  of 
which  is  unlimited  as  the  mystery  of  sound,  the 
artist  shows  us  the  first  workings  of  a  yearning  soul 
to  whom  life  suddenly  appears  under  the  aspect  of 
a  rich  inheritance. 

"  The  monk  sitting  at  the  harpsichord  and  his 
older  companion  are  not  monks  like  those  that  Vit- 
tore  Carpaccio  painted  flying  from  the  wild  beast 
that  Jerome  had  tamed,  in  San  Giorgio  degli  Schia- 
voni.     They  are  of  nobler  and  stronger  essence,  and 


62  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  air  they  breathe  is  finer  and  richer:  it  is  pro- 
pitious to  the  birth  of  a  great  joy  or  a  great  sorrow, 
or  a  haughty  dream.  What  notes  do  the  beautiful, 
sensitive  hands  draw  from  the  keys  where  they  Hn- 
ger?  Magic  notes  they  must  be,  certainly,  to  succeed 
in  working  in  the  musician  so  violent  a  transfigura- 
tion. He  is  half-way  through  his  earthly  existence, 
he  is  already  detached  from  his  youth,  already 
on  the  verge  of  decay,  and  life  is  only  now  revealing 
itself  adorned  with  all  its  good  things,  like  a  forest 
laden  with  purple  fruit,  of  which  his  hands  that  were 
intent  on  other  work  have  never  known  the  velvet 
bloom.  He  does  not  fall  under  the  dominion  of  some 
solitary  tempting  image,  because  his  sensuality  slum- 
bers, but  he  undergoes  a  confused  kind  of  anguish  in 
which  regret  overcomes  desire  while  on  the  web  of 
the  harmonies  that  he  seeks,  the  vision  of  his  past  — 
such  as  it  might  have  been  and  was  not  —  weaves  itself, 
before  his  eyes  like  a  design  of  Chimerae.  His  com- 
panion, who  is  calm  because  already  on  the  threshold 
of  old  age,  divines  this  inner  tempest;  kindly  and 
gravely  he  touches  the  shoulder  of  the  passionate 
musician  with  a  pacifying  movement.  Emerging  from 
the  warm  shadow  like  the  expression  of  desire  itself, 
we  see  the  youth  with  the  plumed  hat  and  the  un- 
shorn locks,  the  fiery  flower  of  adolescence,  whom 
Giorgione  seems  to  have  created  under  the  influence 
of  a  ray  reflected  from  the  stupendous  Hellenic  myth 
whence  the  ideal  form  of  Hermaphrodite  arose.  He 
is  there,  present  and  yet  a  stranger,  separated  from 
the  others  as  one  having  no  care  but  for  his  own 
good.  The  music  seems  to  exalt  his  inexpressible 
dream  and  to  multiply  infinitely  his  power  of  enjoy* 


THE  EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       63 

ment.  He  knows  that  he  is  master  of  the  life  that 
escapes  both  the  others ;  the  harmonies  sought  after 
by  the  player  seem  only  the  prelude  to  his  own 
feast.  He  glances  sideways  intently  as  if  turning  to 
I  know  not  what  that  fascinates  him,  and  that  he 
would  fascinate ;  his  closed  mouth  is  a  mouth  heavy 
with  a  yet  ungiven  kiss ;  his  forehead  is  so  spacious 
that  the  leafiest  of  crowns  would  not  encumber  it,  but 
if  I  consider  his  hidden  hands,  I  can  only  imagine 
them  in  the  act  of  crumpling  the  laurel  leaves  to  per- 
fume his  fingers." 

The  hands  of  the  Life-giver  moved  as  if  they  were 
imitating  the  gesture  of  the  covetous  youth  and  truly 
extracting  its  essence  from  the  aromatic  leaf;  the 
manner  of  his  voice  gave  to  the  image  thus  presented 
an  appearance  so  strongly  detached  that  all  those 
among  his  listeners  who  were  young  thought  their 
unspeakable  desire  was  at  last  finding  expression, 
and  their  inner  dream  of  uninterrupted  and  unending 
pleasure  being  made  manifest.  A  profound  emotion 
seized  them,  an  obscure  agitation  of  controlled  im- 
pulses ;  they  seemed  to  divine  new  possibilities,  the 
prey  that  was  unhoped  for  and  distant  seemed  hence- 
forth tangible.  Stelio  recognised  them  here  and  there 
along  the  whole  length  of  the  hall,  leaning  against 
the  great  reddish  bookcases  where  the  numberless 
volumes  of  inert  and  forgotten  wisdom  lay  buried. 
They  occupied  the  space  left  free  all  round,  making 
a  border  for  the  compact  mass  that  was  like  a  living 
hem ;  and  as  the  extreme  edges  of  a  flag  that  waves 
in  the  wind  have  a  stronger  flutter,  thus  they  too 
throbbed  more  than  the  rest  of  the  audience  at  the 
valiant  breath  of  the  poet's  words. 


64  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

Stelio  recognised  them  all.  Some  he  could  distin- 
guish by  the  singularity  of  their  attitude,  by  the  ex- 
cess of  emotion  betrayed  in  the  curve  of  their  lips,  or 
the  throb  of  their  temples,  or  the  fire  of  their  cheeks. 
On  the  faces  of  some  that  were  turned  to  the  open 
balcony  he  divined  the  enchanting  effect  of  the 
autumn  night  and  their  delight  in  the  breezes  coming 
from  the  weedy  lagoon.  The  eyes  of  another,  in  a 
ray  of  love,  would  point  out  to  him  some  seated 
woman,  looking  as  if  she  had  given  herself  up  to  her- 
self, with  an  indefinable  expression  of  impure  languor, 
with  a  soft  snow-white  face  where  the  mouth  seemed 
the  entrance  to  a  hive  moist  with  honey.         y''_ 

A  strange  lucidity  possessed  him,  whiclf  gave  un- 
usual evidence  to  the  things  he  saw,  as  if  they  ap- 
peared to  him  in  the  hallucination  of  fever.  All 
things  in  his  eyes  were  living  a  hyperbolic  life ;  the 
portraits  of  the  Doges  that  recurred  round  the  room 
among  the  white  meandering  of  the  maps  breathed 
as  truly  as  the  bald  old  men  at  the  further  end  whose 
monotonous  gestures  he  could  discern  at  intervals  as 
they  wiped  their  pale,  heated  brows.  Nothing  escaped 
him ;  not  the  persistent  tearfulness  of  the  hanging 
torches  in  the  bronze  baskets  that  gathered  up  the 
wax  yellow  as  amber,  nor  the  extreme  fineness  of  a 
gemmed  hand  that  would  press  a  handkerchief  to 
sorrowful  lips  as  if  to  soothe  a  burn,  nor  the  folds  of 
a  light  scarf  thrown  round  bare  shoulders  to  which 
the  night  breeze  breathing  through  the  open  bal- 
conies had  brought  a  shiver.  And,  nevertheless, 
while  he  noted  these  thousand  transient  aspects,  there 
remained  in  his  vision  the  entire  image  of  the  vast 
thousand-eyed  chimera,  from  whose  side   the  tragic 


^ 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF   THE   FLAME       65 


Muse  emerged,  her  head  rising  above  the  belt  of 
constellations. 

His  eyes  constantly  returned  to  the  promised 
woman  who  was  appearing  to  him  there  as  the  living 
fulcrum  of  a  starry  world.  He  was  grateful  to  her 
for  having  chosen  such  a  way  of  appearing  to  him  in 
the  moment  of  that  first  communion.  He  no  longer 
saw  in  her  now  the  passing  mistress  of  a  night,  a 
body  ripened  by  long  ardour,  laden  with  voluptuous 
knowledge,  but  as  the  admirable  instrument  of  a  new 
art,  the  apostle  of  the  highest  poetry.  He  saw  in  her 
the  woman  who  was  to  incarnate  his  future  fictions 
of  beauty  in  her  manifold  person ;  whose  unfor- 
gettable voice  was  to  carry  the  words  of  enlighten- 
ment to  distant  peoples.  It  was  not  by  a  promise  of 
pleasure  that  he  now  bound  himself  to  her,  but  by  a 
promise  of  glory,  and  the  work  that  was  still  formless 
within  him  leapt  once  more. 

"  You  who  are  listening  to  me,"  he  continued,  **  do 
you  not  see  some  analogies  between  these  three  sym- 
bols of  Giorgione's  and  those  three  generations  liv- 
ing at  the  time  and  illumined  by  the  dawn  of  a  new 
century?  Venice,  the  triumphant  city,  reveals  her- 
self to  their  eyes  like  a  great  overpleasing  banquet 
where  all  the  wealth  gathered  by  all  the  centuries 
of  war  and  commerce  is  to  be  spread  out  without 
measure.  yWhat  richer  fountain  of  pleasure  could 
there  be  to  initiate  life  in  insatiable  desire pVit 
is  a  moment  of  emotion,  almost  of  bewilderment, 
that,  because  of  its  fulness,  is  worthy  an  hour  of 
heroic  violence.  Stirring  voices  and  laughter  seem 
to  come  from  the  hills  of  Asolo,  where  in  the  midst 
of  her  pleasures  reigns  the  daughter  of  San  Marco, 


eS  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Domina  Aceli,  who  found  the  girdle  of  Aphrodite  in 
the  myrtle  gardens  of  Cyprus.  The  youth  of  the 
white  feathers  comes  at  last  towards  the  banquet,  a 
leader  followed  by  an  unbridled  retinue ;  and  at  last 
we  see  all  the  strongest  appetites  burning  like  torches, 
the  flames  of  which  are  ceaselessly  quickened  by  an 
impetuous  wind. 

"  Thus  begins  that  divine  autumn  of  Art  to  the 
splendour  of  which  man  will  turn  with  a  deep  throb 
of  emotion  as  long  as  the  human  soul  is  capable 
of  aspiring  to  transcend  the  narrowness  of  its  daily 
existence  to  live  a  more  fervent  life  or  die  a  nobler 
death. 

"  Giorgione  is  now  imminent  on  that  marvellous 
sphere,  but  I  cannot  recognise  his  mortal  person,  and 
I  seek  him  in  the  mystery  of  the  fiery  cloud  that 
girds  him  round.  He  appears  more  like  a  myth  to 
us  than  a  man.  The  destiny  of  no  poet  on  earth  is 
comparable  to  his.  All,  or  nearly  all,  concerning  him 
is  unknown.  Some  have  gone  so  far  as  to  deny  his 
existence.  His  name  is  written  on  no  work  of  his, 
and  no  work  is  attributed  to  him  with  certainty. 
Yet  the  whole  of  Venetian  art  seems  to  have  been 
inflamed  by  his  revelation.  The  great  Cisan  appears 
to  have  received  from  him  the  secret  of  infusing  a 
stream  of  luminous  blood  into  the  veins  of  the  beings 
he  creates.  In  all  truth  Giorgione  represents  in  Art 
the  Epiphany  of  the  Flame.  He  deserves  to  be  called 
the  Bearer  of  Fire,  like  Prometheus. 

"  When  I  consider  the  rapidity  with  which  the  sa- 
cred gift  has  passed  from  artist  to  artist,  glowing  ever 
more  gloriously  from  colour  to  colour,  the  image 
rises  spontaneous  in  my  spirit  of  one  of  those  festi- 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME      6y 

vals  by  which  the  Greeks  attempted  to  perpetuate  the 
image  of  the  Titan  son  of  Japetus.  On  the  day  of  the 
festival  a  group  of  young  Athenian  horsemen  would 
ride,  galloping  from  Ceramicus  to  Colonos,  their 
leader  waving  a  torch  lit  at  the  altar  of  the  temple. 
Whenever  the  rapidity  of  their  course  extinguished 
it,  the  bearer  would  give  it  up  to  his  companion,  who, 
still  galloping,  would  relight  it,  and  this  one  passed 
it  to  the  third,  and  the  third  to  the  fourth,  and  so  on 
ever  galloping  until  the  last  laid  it,  still  burning,  on 
the  altar  of  the  Titan.  This  image,  with  all  that  is 
vehement  in  it,  is  in  some  way  significant  to  me  of 
the  feast  of  the  master-colourists  of  Venice.  Each  of 
them,  even  the  least  glorious,  has  had  the  sacred  gift 
in  his  hand,  at  least  for  a  moment  Some  even,  like 
that  first  Bonifacio  whom  we  should  glorify,  seem 
to  have  gathered  with  their  incombustible  fingers  the 
inner  flower  of  this  flame." 

His  own  fingers  moved  in  the  air  as  if  to  pick  the 
ideal  flower  from  the  invisible  summit  of  the  wave 
that  the  seething  soul  of  the  chimera  was  propelling 
towards  the  poet  who  had  conquered  it.  And  his 
eyes  travelled  to  the  celestial  sphere,  silently  offering 
the  fiery  gift  of  that  flower  to  her  who  watched  over 
the  godlike  beasts  of  the  Zodiac.    "  To  you,  Perdita." 

But  the  woman  was  smiling  to  some  one  far  away, 
pointing  to  some  one  with  her  smile.  And  so,  by 
following  the  thread  of  her  smile,  he  was  led  to  an 
unknown  person  suddenly  lit  up  on  a  background 
of  shadow. 

Was  not  that  the  creature  of  music  whose  name 
had  resounded  against  the  iron  of  the  ship  in  the 
silence  and  the  shadow? 


68  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  seemed  to  him  almost  an  interior  image  sud- 
denly sprung  up  in  that  part  of  his  soul  where 
the  ghost  of  the  sensation  that  had  fallen  upon 
him  as  he  entered  the  shadow  of  the  ironclad  had 
remained  like  an  obscure  and  indistinct  point.  For 
a  second  she  was  beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of  his 
own  unexpressed  thoughts. 

"A  City  to  which  similar  creatures  have  given  so 
powerful  a  soul,"  he  added,  agile  on  the  rising  wave, 
"  is  only  considered  to-day,  by  the  many,  as  a  great 
inert  shrine  full  of  relics,  or  as  a  refuge  full  of  peace 
and  oblivion ! 

"  Indeed  I  know  of  no  other  place  in  the  world  — 
unless  it  be  Rome  —  where  an  ambitious  and  robust 
spirit  can  spur  on  the  active  virtue  of  his  intellect 
and  all  the  energies  of  his  being  towards  the  supreme 
degree,  better  than  on  these  sluggish  waters.  And 
I  know  of  no  marsh  capable  of  provoking  in  human 
pulses  a  fever  more  violent  than  that  which  at  times 
creeps  towards  us  from  the  shadow  of  a  silent  canaL 
And  those  men  who  spend  their  noontide  buried  in 
the  ripe  crop  during  the  dog-days  feel  no  wilder 
wave  of  blood  rise  to  their  temples  than  that  which 
dims  our  eyes  when  we  bend  too  intently  over  these 
waters,  seeking  lest  by  chance  we  should  discover  in 
the  depths  below  them  some  ancient  sword  or  old  lost 
diadem. 

"  Nevertheless,  do  not  all  fragile  souls  come  here 
as  to  a  place  of  refuge?  those  who  hide  some  secret 
wound,  those  who  have  accomplished  some  final 
renunciation,  those  whom  a  morbid  love  has  emascu- 
lated, and  those  who  only  seek  silence  the  better  to 
hear  themselves  perish?     Perhaps  Venice  is  in  their 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME      69 

eyes  a  clement  city  of  death,  embraced  by  a  sleep- 
giving  pool.  Their  presence,  however,  weighs  no 
more  than  the  wandering  weeds  floating  about  the 
steps  of  the  marble  palaces.  They  only  serve  to 
increase  the  singular  odour  of  sickly  things,  the 
strange  feverish  odour  on  which  we  have  often  found 
it  sweet,  towards  evening,  after  a  laborious  day,  to 
nurse  the  fulness  of  our  own  feelings,  at  times  so 
akin  to  languor. 

"  Yet  the  ambiguous  city  does  not  always  indulge 
the  illusion  of  those  who  worship  her  as  a  peace- 
giver.  I  know  of  one  who  started  up  from  his  rest 
on  her  bosom  as  terrified  as  if  he  had  been  lying 
with  the  pliant  fingers  of  his  beloved  on  his  tired 
eyelids  and  had  heard  snakes  suddenly  hissing  in 
her  hair. 

"  Ah,  if  I  could  only  show  you  the  prodigious  life 
that  I  see  throbbing  under  her  vast  necklaces  and 
her  thousand  girdles  of  green !  Day  by  day  she 
absorbs  more  of  our  soul :  now  giving  it  back  to  us 
intact  and  fresh,  and  renewed  with  a  primitive  new- 
ness on  which  the  traces  of  the  morrow's  things  will 
impress  themselves  with  ineffable  clearness;  now 
giving  it  back  to  us  infinitely  subtle  and  voracious, 
like  a  flame  melting  all  that  approaches  it,  so  that  at 
evening,  among  the  dross  and  ashes  of  it,  we  some- 
times come  upon  some  extraordinary  sublimate. 
She  entices  each  of  us  into  the  act  that  is  the  very 
genesis  of  our  species :  the  effort  to  surpass  our- 
selves unceasingly.  She  shows  us  the  possibility  of 
transforming  pain  into  the  most  efficacious  of  stimu- 
lating energies ;  she  teaches  us  that  joy  is  the  most 
certain  means  of  knowledge  offered  us  by  Nature, 


70  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  that  he  who  has  suffered  much  is  less  wise  than 
he  who  has  much  enjoyed." 

Here  and  there  a  vague  murmur  of  dissent  rip- 
pled through  the  audience;  the  Queen  denied  the 
assertion  with  a  slight  shake  of  her  head ;  some 
ladies  communicated  a  sort  of  graceful  horror  to  each 
other  in  an  exchange  of  glances.  Then  all  was  lost 
in  the  zeal  of  the  youthful  applause  that  on  every 
side  went  out  to  him  who  taught  with  such  truthful 
daring  the  art  of  ascending  to  superior  forms  of  life 
by  the  power  of  joy. 

Stelio  smiled  as  he  recognised  his  own,  who  were 
many;  smiled  on  recognising  the  efficacy  of  his 
teaching  that  had  already  cleared  the  mists  of  inert 
sadness  from  more  than  one  spirit,  and  in  more  than 
one  had  killed  cowardice  and  vain  tears,  and  in  more 
than  one  had  instilled  for  ever  a  scorn  of  complain- 
ing sorrows  and  weak  compassions.  He  was  glad  of 
having  given  utterance  once  more  to  that  principle 
of  his  doctrine  which  flowed  naturally  from  the  soul 
of  the  art  he  was  glorifying. V  And  they  who  had 
withdrawn'  into  a  hermit's  cell  to  adore  a  sad  phantom 
that  only  lived  in  the  blurred  mirror  of  their  own 
eyes ;  and  they  who  had  made  themselves  kings  of 
a  windowless  palace,  from  time  immemorial  awaiting 
a  visitation  there ;  and  they  who  had  hoped  to  dig 
up  the  image  of  Beauty  from  under  some  ruin  and 
had  only  found  a  worn  sphinx  that  had  tormented 
them  with  its  endless  enigmas;  and  they  who  sat 
down  evening  after  evening  on  their  doorsteps,  pale, 
to  await  the  arrival  of  a  mysterious  stranger  bringing 
endless  gifts  under  his  mantle,  and  pressed  their 
ears  flat  on  the  ground  to  hear  the  footsteps  that 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       71 

now  seemed  to  draw  near  and  now  to  fade  away;  all 
those  who  were  sterilised  by  a  resigned  mourning  or 
devoured  by  a  desperate  pride  ;  those  who  were  hard- 
ened by  a  useless  obstinacy  or  kept  sleepless  by  some 
continually  disappointed  expectation,  —  he  would 
have  bid  them  all  come  and  recognise  their  disease 
under  the  splendour  of  that  ancient  yet  ever-resurgent 
soul.  >Jt^^ 

"  If  its  whole  population  were  to  emigrate,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  full  of  exaltation,  "  forsaking  its  homes, 
attracted  by  other  shores,  as  once  its  own  heroic 
youth  were  tempted  by  the  arch  of  the  Bosphorus 
in  the  time  of  the  Doge  Pietro  Ziani,  and  no  prayer 
were  again  to  strike  the  sonorous  gold  of  the  curved 
mosaics,  no  oar  were  again  to  perpetuate  with  its 
ihythm  the  meditation  of  the  silent  stones,  Venice 
would  yet  and  for  ever  remain  a  City  of  Life.  The 
ideal  creatures  guarded  by  its  silence  live  in  the 
whole  past  and  in  the  whole  future.  We  constantly 
find  in  them  new  concordances  with  the  edifice  of 
the  Universe  that  is  about  to  be,  unexpected  meet- 
ings with  the  idea  that  was  born  only  yesterday, 
clear  announcements  of  that  which  is  only  a  fore- 
boding in  us  as  yet,  and  open  answers  to  that  which 
we  have  not  yet  dared  to  ask.  They  are  simple,  and 
yet  charged  with  numberless  significances ;  they  are 
ingenuous,  and  yet  clothed  in  curious  raiment.  If  we 
contemplated  them  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time, 
they  would  never  cease  from  pouring  dissimilar 
truths  into  our  spirits.  If  we  visited  them  every 
day,  they  would  appear  to  us  every  day  under  an 
unforeseen  aspect,  like  the  sea,  the  rivers,  the  fields, 
the   woods,  and   the  rocks.     Sometimes   the   things 


72  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

which  they  say  to  us  do  not  reach  as  far  as  ouf 
intellect,  but  are  revealed  to  us  in  a  kind  of  confused 
happiness  causing  our  own  substance  to  dilate  and 
quiver  from  its  very  depths.  Some  clear  morning 
they  will  show  us  the  way  to  the  distant  forest  where 
the  beautiful  one  awaits  us  from  time  immemorial, 
buried  in  her  mystic  hair. 

"Whence  comes  their  unlimited  power? 

"  From  the  pure  unconsciousness  of  the  artists 
who  created  them. 

"  Those  profound  men  ignored  the  immensity  of  the 
things  which  they  expressed.  Striking  a  million  roots 
into  the  soil  of  life,  not  like  single  trees,  but  Hke  the 
vastest  forests,  they  have  absorbed  infinite  elements, 
which  have  been  transfused  and  condensed  by  them 
into  ideal  species  whose  essences  have  remained  un- 
known to  them,  as  the  taste  of  the  apple  remains  un- 
known to  the  branch  that  bears  it.  They  have  been 
the  mysterious  means  continually  chosen  by  Nature 
to  satisfy  her  continual  aspiration  to  those  types  which 
she  has  not  succeeded  in  producing  in  an  integral 
manner.  Because  of  this,  while  continuing  the  work 
of  the  Divine  Mother,  their  mind  has  become  trans- 
formed, as  Leonardo  says,  into  a  *  likeness  of  the 
divine  mind.*  And  because  creative  force  inces- 
santly rushed  to  their  fingers  like  sap  to  the  buds 
of  the  trees,  they  have  created  with  joy." 

All  the  desire  of  the  artist  panting  to  obtain  the 
Olympic  gift,  all  his  envy  of  those  colossal,  untir- 
ing, and  undoubting  forgers  of  beauty,  all  his  thirst 
for  happiness  and  glory,  stood  revealed  in  the 
accent  with  which  he  pronounced  the  last  words. 
Once   more  the  soul   of  the  multitude  was  in   the 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       73 

poet's  power,  strained  and  vibrating  like  one  only 
chord  made  of  a  thousand  chords,  that  incalculably 
prolonged  every  resonance.  That  resonance  awak- 
ened in  it  the  sense  of  a  truth  that  it  had  contained 
all  along,  but  that  the  words  of  the  poet  were  sud- 
denly revealing  in  the  form  of  a  message  never 
heard  before.  It  no  longer  felt  a  stranger  in  the 
sacred  place,  where  one  of  the  most  splendid  of 
human  destinies  had  left  so  deep  a  trace  of  its 
splendour;  but  it  could  feel  the  aged  mass  living 
round  it  and  beneath  it,  from  its  deepest  foundations, 
as  if  its  memories,  no  longer  motionless  in  the  shadow 
of  the  past,  were  circulating  through  it  like  the  free 
winds  of  a  deeply-stirred  forest.  In  the  magic  res- 
pite given  to  it  by  the  virtue  of  strength  and  poetry 
the  multitude  seemed  to  perceive  in  itself  the  inde- 
structible signs  of  its  primitive  generation,  almost 
a  vague  efhgy  of  its  remote  ascendency ;  it  seemed 
to  recognise  its  right  to  an  old  heritage  of  which 
it  had  been  despoiled,  —  that  heritage  which  the 
messenger  was  telling  them  was  still  intact  and 
within  their  power  to  recover.  It  was  experiencing 
the  agitation  of  one  about  to  regain  a  lost  fortune. 
And  over  the  night  that  could  be  seen  glittering 
through  the  open  balconies,  with  the  red  glare  of 
the  illumination  that  was  to  encircle  the  harbour  be- 
low beginning  to  appear,  there  seemed  to  be  spread 
the  expectation  of  a  foretold  home-coming. 

In  that  sonorous  silence  the  solitary  voice  reached 
its  climax. 

"  To  create  with  joy !  "  It  is  the  attribute  of 
Divinity !  It  is  not  possible  to  imagine  at  the 
summit  of  our  spirit  a   more  triumphal    act.     The 


74  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

very  words  that  express  it  have  about  them  the 
qualities  of  the  dawn's  resplendence. 

"  And  these  artists  created  by  a  means  that  is  in 
itself  a  joyous  mystery:  by  colour  which  is  the 
ornament  of  the  world ;  colour,  which  seems  the 
effort  of  matter  to  become  light. 

"  And  such  was  their  extreme  musical  sense  of 
colour  that  their  creation  transcends  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  pictured  symbols,  and  takes  on  the 
high  revealing  power  of  an  infinite  harmony. 

"  Never  has  the  sentence  pronounced  by  that 
Vinci  on  whom  Truth  flashed  one  day  with  its  thou- 
sand sacred  faces  appeared  so  evident  as  before  their 
great  symphonic  canvases.  Music  cannot  be  called 
other  than  the  sister  of  painting.  Their  painting 
is  not  only  silent  poetry,  it  is  also  silent  music. 
For  this,  the  subtlest  seekers  of  rare  symbols  and 
those  most  anxious  to  impress  the  signs  of  an  in- 
ternal Universe  on  the  purity  of  a  thoughtful  brow 
seem  to  us  almost  barren  in  comparison  to  these 
great  unconscious  musicians. 

"  When  we  see  Bonifacio  in  his  Parable  of  Dives 
intoning  with  a  note  of  fire  the  most  powerful  har- 
mony of  colour  in  which  the  essence  of  a  haughty 
and  voluptuous  soul  has  ever  stood  revealed,  we  do 
not  pause  with  our  inquiry  at  the  fair  youth  listening 
to  the  music,  seated  between  the  two  magnificent 
courtesans,  whose  faces  have  the  gleam  of  lamps  lit 
in  pure  ether.  But  piercing  through  the  material 
symbol  we  give  ourselves  up  with  anxious  emotion 
to  the  power  of  evocation  held  by  those  far-reaching 
chords,  in  which  our  spirits  of  to-day  seem  to  find 
the  foresight  of  I  know  not  what  evening,  heavy  with 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME      75 

autumnal  gold  as  with  beautiful  destinies,  on  a  har- 
bour quiet  as  a  basin  of  perfumed  oils  where  a  galley 
throbbing  with  oriflames  shall  enter  in  the  midst  of  a 
strange  silence,  like  a  twilight  butterfly  fluttering  into 
the  veined  chalice  of  a  great  flower. 

"  Shall  not  our  mortal  eyes  really  see  it  landing 
under  the  palace  of  the  Doges  some  glorious  evening? 

"  Does  it  not  appear  to  us  from  a  prophetic  horizon 
in  that  Allegory  of  Autumn  which  Tintoretto  offers 
us,  like  a  superior  created  image  of  our  dream  of 
yesterday? 

"  Seated  on  the  shore  like  a  deity  Venice  receives 
the  ring  from  the  young  vine-crowned  god  who  has 
descended  into  the  water,  while  Beauty  soars  on  her 
wings  with  the  diadem  of  stars  to  crown  the  wonder- 
ful alliance. 

"  Look  at  the  distant  ship  !  it  seems  to  bring  some 
announcement.  Look  at  the  body  of  the  symbolic 
woman !  both  seem  capable  of  bearing  the  germs  of 
a  world." 

The  vast  bursting  applause  was  overpowered  by 
the  youthful  clamour  that  rose  like  a  whirlwind 
towards  him  who  had  made  so  great  a  hope  flash 
before  their  anxious  eyes,  towards  him  who  had 
revealed  himself  as  possessing  so  lucid  a  faith  in  the 
occult  genius  of  their  race,  in  the  growing  virtue  of 
the  ideals  handed  down  by  their  fathers,  in  their 
sovereign  dignity  of  spirit,  in  the  indestructible  power 
of  Beauty,  in  all  the  great  values  held  as  nothing  by 
modern  barbarity.  The  hearts  of  his  disciples  went 
out  to  the  master  with  an  impulse  of  love,  with  all 
the  effusion  of  gratitude,  for  his  ardent  words  had 
brought  torch-lights  to  their  souls,  and  had  excited 


76  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

their  sense  of  life  to  the  point  of  fever.  Giorgione's 
creation  Hved  again  in  each  of  them :  the  youth  with 
the  beautiful  white  feathers,  about  to  grasp  the  im- 
mense accumulated  spoil.  And  to  each  it  seemed  as 
if  his  power  of  enjoyment  had  been  infinitely  multi- 
plied. Their  cry  was  so  expressive  of  internal  tumult, 
that  the  Life-giver  shivered  inwardly,  filled  by  a 
sudden  tide  of  sadness  as  he  thought  of  the  ashes  of 
that  transient  fire,  of  the  morrow's  cruel  awakening. 
Against  what  sharp  and  ignoble  hindrances  would 
it  not  have  to  break,  this,  their  terrible  desire  of  liv- 
ing, and  the  violent  will  to  direct  all  the  energies  of 
their  being  to  a  sublime  end,  to  shape  the  wings  of 
victory  for  their  own  fate  ! 

But  the  night  was  favourable  to  that  youthful 
delirium.  The  dreams  of  domination,  of  pleasure, 
and  of  glory  that  Venice  has  first  nursed,  and  then 
suffocated  in  her  marble  arms,  seemed  to  rise  again 
from  the  foundations  of  the  palaces,  entering  by  the 
open  balconies,  throbbing  like  a  people  newly  restored 
to  life  under  the  enormous  scrolls  of  the  ceiling  that 
was  rich  and  heavy  like  a  suspended  treasure.  The 
strength  that  was  swelling  the  muscles  of  the  gods, 
kings,  and  heroes  effigied  round  the  ample  dome  and 
the  high  walls;  the  beauty  that  flowed  like  visible 
music  through  the  nudity  of  the  goddesses,  the 
queens,  and  the  courtesans ;  the  human  strength  and 
beauty  transfigured  by  centuries  of  art,  —  harmonised 
in  one  single  image,  that  those  intoxicated  men 
seemed  to  see  real  and  breathing  before  their  eyes, 
erected  there  by  the  new  poet. 

Their  intoxication  vented  itself  in  the  shout  they 
sent  up  to  him  who  had  offered  their  parched  lips  a 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       ^^ 

cup  of  his  own  wine.  All  henceforth  would  be  able 
to  see  the  inextinguishable  flame  through  the  veil  of 
water.  Some  one  among  them  already  imagined  him- 
self crumpling  laurel  leaves  to  perfume  his  fingers,  and 
some  already  dreamt  of  discovering  at  the  bottom  of 
a  silent  canal  the  ancient  sword  and  the  old,  lost 
diadem. 


Stelio  EfFrena  was  alone  with  the  statues  in  one 
of  the  rooms  of  the  neighbouring  museum,  impatient 
of  any  other  contact,  feeling  the  necessity  of  recollect- 
ing himself  and  quieting  the  unusual  vibration  by 
which  his  whole  essence  had  been  dissipated  and  dis- 
persed over  the  manifold  spirit  of  the  crowd.  There 
was  no  trace  in  his  memory  of  his  recent  words ;  he 
could  find  no  sign  of  his  recent  images.  All  that 
persisted  in  his  mind  was  that  "  inner  flower  of  the 
flame  "  that  he  had  mentioned  when  glorifying  the 
first  Bonifacio,  and  had  gathered  with  his  own  incom- 
bustible fingers  for  the  promised  woman.  It  again 
struck  him  how  at  the  moment  of  a  spontaneous 
offer,  the  woman  had  withdrawn  herself,  and  how,  in 
the  place  of  her  absent  eyes,  he  had  found  the  indi- 
cating smile.  The  cloud  of  ecstasy  that  had  been  on 
the  point  of  dissolving  seemed  to  again  condense 
above  his  head ;  assuming  the  vague  shape  of  the 
creature  of  music,  and  holding  the  flaming  flower  in 
an  attitude  of  dominion,  it  seemed  that  she"  was 
emerging  above  his  inward  agitation  as  on  the  inces- 
sant tremble  of  a  summer  sea.  The  first  notes  of  the 
symphony  of  Benedetto  Marcello  reached  him  from 
the  neighbouring  hall  as  if  to  celebrate  that  image, 


78  THE  FLAME    OF   LIFE 

their  fugue-like  movement  at  once  revealing  its  char- 
acter of  great  style.  A  clear,  sonorous  idea,  strong 
as  a  living  person,  developed  itself  in  the  measure  of 
its  power,  and  in  that  music  he  recognised  the  virtue 
of  the  same  principle  round  which  as  round  a  thyrsus 
he  had  entwined  the  garland  of  his  poetry. 

Then  the  name  that  had  already  echoed  against  the 
flank  of  the  ironclad,  in  the  silence  and  the  shadow, 
the  name  that  had  been  scattered  like  a  sibylline  leaf 
by  the  immense  wave  of  the  evening  bells,  seemed  to 
propose  its  syllables  to  the  orchestra  for  him,  like  a 
new  theme  picked  up  by  the  bows  of  the  instruments. 
The  violins,  the  viols,  and  the  violoncellos  sang  it  in 
turn;  the  sudden  blasts  of  the  heroic  trumpets  ex- 
alted it;  finally,  with  a  uniform  impetus  the  whole 
quartette  launched  it  into  that  heaven  of  joy  where 
the  crown  of  stars  offered  to  Ariadne  by  the  golden 
Aphrodite  would  presently  shine. 


In  the  pause  which  followed,  Stelio  underwent  a 
singular  bewilderment,  almost  a  religious  stupor,  as  if 
he  had  assisted  at  an  annunciation.  He  understood 
what  a  precious  thing  it  was  to  him  to  be  alone  among 
those  pure,  silent  images  in  that  inestimable  lyric 
moment. 

A  shred  of  the  same  mystery  that  he  had  grazed 
under  the  flank  of  the  ironclad  as  one  touches  a  float- 
ing veil  seemed  to  waver  before  his  eyes  in  that  de- 
serted room  that  was  yet  so  near  to  the  human  crowd. 
It  was  silent,  like  the  sea-shell  lying  on  the  shore  by 
the  rushing  waves.  Again,  as  before  at  other  extraor- 
/dinary  hours  of  his  journey,  he  felt  that  his  fate  was 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME       79 

present  and  about  to  give  his  being  a  new  impulse, 
perhaps  to  call  to  life  in  it  a  marvellous  act  of  will. 
And  as  he  reflected  on  the  mediocrity  of  the  many 
obscure  destinies  hanging  over  those  heads  in  the 
crowd,  that  were  eager  for  the  apparitions  of  ideal 
life,  he  rejoiced  at  being  where  he  was  to  adore  the 
auspicious  demon-figure  that  had  secretly  come  to 
visit  him  and  to  bring  him  a  shrouded  gift  in  the 
name  of  an  unknown  mistress. 

He  started  at  the  burst  of  human  voices  saluting 
the  unconquered  king  with  a  triumphant  acclamation. 
"Viva  il  forte,  vivail  grande."  .  .  . 

The  deep  hall  echoed  like  a  vast  timbrel,  and  the 
reverberation  diluted  along  the  staircase  of  the  cen- 
sors and  the  Golden  Staircase,  to  the  loggias,  the  pas- 
sages, the  porches,  the  vestibules,  to  the  wells,  to  the 
foundations  of  the  palace,  like  a  thunder  of  gladness 
rolling  in  the  serene  night. 

"  Viva  il  forte,  viva  il  grande 
Vincitor  dell'  Indie  dome."  *  .  .  . 

It  seemed  that  the  chorus  was  saluting  the  appari- 
tion of  the  magnificent  god  invoked  by  the  poet  upon 
the  Sea-City.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hem  of  his  purple 
raiment  fluttered  in  those  vocal  notes  like  flames  in  a 
crystal  tube.  The  living  image  hung  suspended  over 
the  crowd  that  it  was  nourishing  with  its  own  dream. 
"  Viva  il  forte,  viva  il  grande."  .  .  . 

In  the  impetuous /«^«^  movement  of  the  bassi,  the 
contraiti  and  the  soprani  repeated  their  frenzied  ac- 
clamation of  the  Immortal  of  the  thousand  names  and 

*  "Hail  to  the  strong,  hail  to  the  great  conqueror  of  vanquished 
India." 


8o  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  thousand  crowns,  "  born  on  an  ineffable  bed, 
Hke  to  a  young  man  in  his  first  youth." 

The  old  Dionysian  intoxication  seemed  to  revive 
and  diffuse  itself  over  the  divine  Chorus.  The  ful- 
ness and  freshness  of  life  in  the  smile  of  Zeus,  who 
loosed  the  hearts  of  men  from  human  sufferings,  was 
expressed  there  with  a  luminous  burst  of  joy.  The 
inextinguishable  fires  of  the  Bassarides  flamed  and 
crackled  there.  As  in  the  Orphean  hymn  the  light 
of  a  conflagration  illumined  the  young  brow  crowned 
with  azure  hair.  "  When  the  splendour  of  fire  in- 
vaded all  the  earth,  he  alone  chained  up  the  shrill 
whirlwinds  of  flame,"  As  in  the  Homeric  hymn  the 
barren  bosom  of  the  sea  throbbed  there,  the  meas- 
ured stroke  of  the  numerous  oars  that  were  pushing 
the  well-built  vessel  to  unknown  lands  echoed  there. 
The  Florid,  the  Fruit-bearer,  the  visible  Remedy  of 
mortals,  the  sacred  Flower,  the  Friend  of  pleasure, 
Dionysius  the  liberator,  suddenly  reappeared  before 
the  face  of  man  on  the  wings  of  song,  crowning  that 
nocturnal  hour  with  bliss,  incessantly  holding  out  to 
his  senses  as  in  a  full  chalice  all  the  good  things  of  life. 

The  strength  of  the  song  was  increasing,  the  voices 
blending  in  its  rush.  The  hymn  now  celebrated  the 
tamer  of  tigers,  of  panthers,  of  lions,  and  of  lynxes. 
The  Maenads  seemed  to  scream  out  here  with  heads 
thrown  back,  and  locks  scattered,  and  dresses  loos- 
ened, striking  their  cymbals,  shaking  their  citherns. 
" Evoe ! " 

A  broad  pastoral  rhythm  rose  unexpectedly  from 
these  heroic  sounds,  bringing  forth  the  images  of  the 
Theban  Bacchus  of  the  pure  brow  circled  with  gentle 
thoughts. 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME      8i 

••Quel  che  all'  olmo  la  vite  in  stretto  nodo 
Proauba  accoppia,  e  i  pampini  feconda."  * 

Only  two  voices  in  a  succession  of  sixths  now  sang 
the  leafy  nuptials,  the  green  marriage-feast,  the  flexi- 
ble ties.  The  image  of  the  boat  on  the  lagoon,  laden 
with  bunches  like  a  wine-press  about  to  be  trodden, 
already  created  by  the  poet's  words,  passed  again 
before  the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  And  the  song 
seemed  to  repeat  the  miracle  witnessed  by  the  pru- 
dent pilot  Medeia.  "  And  it  came  to  pass  that  a 
sweet  and  most  fragrant  wine  ran  along  the  swift, 
black  boat.  .  .  .  And  a  vine  unfolded  itself  up  to 
the  top  of  the  sail,  and  from  it  hung  numberless 
bunches.  And  a  dark  ivy  twisted  itself  about  the 
mast,  and  it  was  covered  with  flowers,  and  beautiful 
fruits  grew  on  it,  and  garlands  were  about  the  row- 
locks." 

The  spirit  of  the  fugue  then  passed  into  the  orches- 
tra, disburdened  itself  there  in  beautiful  volutes  while 
the  voices  struck  the  web  of  the  orchestra  with  a 
simultaneous  percussion.  And  like  a  light  thyrsus 
brandished  above  the  Bacchic  crowd,  a  single  voice 
repeated  the  impartial  melody,  smiling  with  the  grace 
of  that  pastoral  marriage. 

«  Viva  dell'  olmo 
E  della  vite 
L'  almo  fecondo 
Sostenitor!"' 

The  single  voices  seemed  to  call  forth  a  picture 
of  erect  Tiades   gently  waving  their  thyrsi   in  the 

*  "  He  who  tightly  clasps  the  vine  to  the  elm-tree,  weds  them  one 
to  the  other,  and  fructifies  its  tendrils." 

•  "  Hail  to  the  great,  fruitful  supporter  of  the  vine  and  the  elm-tree." 


82  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

fumes  of  their  intoxication,  dressed  in  long  crocus- 
coloured  garments,  their  faces  alight,  palpitating 
like  the  women  of  Veronese  who  were  bending 
from  aerial  balustrades  to  drink  in  the  song. 

The  heroic  applause  came  up  once  more  with 
final  vehemence.  The  face  of  the  conquering  God 
flashed  again  among  the  madly  waved  torches. 
Voices  and  orchestra  thundered  in  unison  in  a 
supreme  impulse  of  joy  at  the  huge  chimera  full  of 
eyes  under  the  hanging  treasure  of  the  ceiling  in  the 
circle  of  red  triremes  and  armed  towers  and  trium- 
phant processions. 

"  Viva  dell'  Indie, 
Viva  de'  mari, 
Viva  de'  mostri 
Ildomatorl"! 

Stello  Effrena  had  come  as  far  as  the  threshold ; 
through  the  throng  that  gave  way  as  he  passed  he 
penetrated  into  the  hall,  and  remained  standing 
against  one  of  the  sides  of  the  platform  occupied  by 
the  singers  and  the  orchestra.  His  anxious  eyes 
sought  la  Foscarina  by  the  heavenly  sphere,  but  did 
not  find  her. 

The  head  of  the  tragic  muse  no  longer  rose  above 
the  belt  of  constellations.  Where  was  she?  Where 
had  she  withdrawn  herself?  Could  she  be  seeing 
him  without  his  seeing  her?  An  obscure  feeling  of 
agitation  perturbed  him,  and  all  they  had  seen  that 
evening  on  the  waters  returned  to  his  spirit  con- 
fusedly accompanied  by  her  parting  words  of  promise. 
As  he  looked  through  the  open  balconies  he  thought 

^  "  Hail  to  the  conqueror  of  India,  of  the  seas,  and  of  the 
monsters." 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME       83 

she  had  gone  out  into  the  night  air,  and  that  perhaps 
she  was  leaning  against  the  parapet,  feeling  the  waves 
of  music  pass  over  her  cold  neck,  deriving  from  them 
a  joy  as  of  shivers  communicated  by  long  kisses. 

The  expectation  of  the  revealing  voice,  however, 
overpowered  every  other  thought,  abolished  every 
other  anxiety.  He  noticed  that  a  deep  silence  had 
come  over  the  hall,  as  in  the  moment  when  he  had 
opened  his  lips  for  his  first  syllable.  As  in  that 
moment  the  elusive  and  versatile  monster  with  the 
thousand  human  faces  seemed  to  stretch  out  dumbly, 
making  a  void  in  itself  to  receive  a  new  soul. 

He  heard  some  one  round  him  whisper  the  name 
of  Donatella  Arvale ;  he  turned  his  eyes  towards  the 
platform  beyond  the  dark  hedge  of  the  violoncelli. 
The  singer  was  invisible,  concealed  by  the  delicate, 
quivering  forest,  whence  the  sorrowful  harmony 
was  about  to  arise  that  was  to  accompany  Ariadne's 
lament. 

In  the  propitious  silence  the  violins  unfolded  the 
prelude.  The  viols  and  the  violoncellos  then  added 
a  deeper  sigh  to  that  imploring  moan.  After  the 
Phrygian  flute  and  the  Berecinthian  cithern,  after  the 
instruments  of  revelry  the  sounds  of  which  trouble 
the  reason  and  spur  on  delirium,  was  not  this,  grave 
and  sweet,  the  august  Doric  lyre,  the  harmonious 
fulcrum  of  song?  It  was  the  birth  of  the  Drama 
from  the  noisy  Dithyramb.  The  great  metamor- 
phosis of  the  Dionysian  rite,  the  frenzy  of  the  sacred 
festival  converted  into  the  creative  enthusiasm  of  the 
tragedian,  seemed  figured  by  that  musical  vicis- 
situde. The  fiery  breath  of  the  Thracian  god  had 
given  life  to  a  sublime  form  of  art.    The  crown  and  the 


84  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

tripod  decreed  as  the  prize  of  the  poet's  victory  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  lascivious  goat  and  the  Attic 
basket  of  figs,  ^schilus,  keeper  of  a  vineyard,  had 
been  visited  by  the  god,  and  had  received  the  infusion 
of  his  spirit  of  flame.  On  the  slope  of  the  Acropolis, 
by  the  sanctuary  of  Dionysius,  a  marble  theatre  had 
arisen  worthy  of  containing  the  chosen  people. 

Thus,  suddenly  in  the  inner  world  of  the  Life-giver 
the  pathways  of  the  centuries  had  opened  up,  and 
were  stretching  away  into  the  distance  of  primitive 
mysteries.  That  form  of  art  to  which  the  effort  of 
his  genius  was  tending,  attracted  by  the  obscure 
aspirations  of  human  multitudes,  now  appeared  to 
him  in  all  the  sanctity  of  its  origins.  The  divine 
sorrow  of  Ariadne,  coming  like  a  melodious  cry  out 
of  the  furious  Thiaros,  imparted  a  throb  to  the  already 
living,  though  still  formless,  work  that  he  was  nourish- 
ing within  him.  Again  his  glance  sought  the  Muse 
of  the  propagating  voice  against  the  belt  of  con- 
stellations. As  he  did  not  see  her,  he  turned  to  the 
forest  of  instruments  whence  the  moan  arose. 

Then,  among  the  slight  bows  that  rose  and  fell  on 
the  strings  with  an  alternating  motion,  he  saw  the 
singer.  She  was  standing  straight  as  a  stem,  and 
like  a  stem  swaying  a  little  to  the  hushed  harmony. 
The  youthfulness  of  her  agile  yet  robust  body  seemed 
resplendent  through  the  tissue  of  her  garments  like  a 
flame  seen  through  the  thinness  of  polished  ivory. 
The  bows  seemed  to  draw  their  note  from  the  occult 
music  that  was  in  her  as  they  rose  and  fell  round  her 
white  form.  When  she  curved  her  lips  for  her  first 
words  Stelio  felt  the  strength  and  purity  of  the  voice 
before  he  heard  its  modulation,  as  if  she  were  before 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       85 

him  like  a  crystal  vase  in  which  he  could  trace  the 
ascension  of  a  living  spring. 

**  Come  mai  puoi 
Vedermi  piangere?"  *  .  .  , 

The  melody  of  antique  love  and  sorrow  flowed 
from  those  lips  with  an  expression  so  strong  and 
pure,  that  as  it  passed  into  the  manifold  soul  of  the 
audience  it  immediately  changed  into  mysterious  joy. 
Was  it  indeed  the  divine  weeping  of  the  daughter 
of  Minos  as  she  h'eld  out  her  deluded  arms  to  the 
Flavian  guest  from  the  deserted  shore  of  Naxos? 
The  fable  vanished,  abolishing  the  deception  of  time. 
The  eternal  love  and  eternal  sorrow  of  gods  and 
men  breathed  in  the  sovereign  voice.  The  useless 
regret  of  each  lost  joy,  the  last  recalling  of  each 
fugitive  good,  the  supreme  prayer  to  every  sail  van- 
ishing in  the  sea,  to  every  sun  hiding  in  the  moun- 
tains, the  implacable  desire  and  the  promise  of  death 
passed  into  the  great,  solitary  song,  transformed 
by  the  virtue  of  art  into  sublime  essences  that  the 
soul  could  receive  without  suffering.  The  v/ords 
themselves  dissolved  in  it,  lost  all  meaning,  changed 
into  indefinitely  revealing  notes  of  love  and  sorrow. 
Like  a  circle  that  is  closed  and  yet  dilates  continually 
with  the  same  throb  as  universal  life,  the  melody  had 
circumscribed  the  manifold  soul  that  yet  dilated  with 
it  in  an  immense  joy.  Through  the  open  balconies, 
in  the  perfect  calm  of  the  autumn  night,  the  fascina- 
tion spread  over  the  torpid  waters,  rose  to  the  vigi- 
lant stars,  went  beyond  the  motionless  masts  of  the 
ships,  beyond   the  sacred  towers   inhabited   by  the 

*  "  How  can  you  bear  to  see  me  weep  ?  * 


86  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

now  silent  bells.  In  the  interludes  the  singer  would 
bend  her  young  head,  apparently  lifeless  as  an  image, 
all  white  in  the  forest  of  instruments,  surrounded  by 
the  alternate  motion  of  the  long  bows,  perhaps  un- 
conscious of  the  world  that  her  song  had  in  a 
moment  transfigured. 


Stelio  Effrena  reached  the  courtyard  by  a  secret 
outlet,  so  as  to  be  spared  the  curiosity  of  the  im- 
portunate, and  took  refuge  in  a  fragment  of  shadow. 
Thence  he  watched  the  throng  at  the  head  of  the 
Scala  dei  Giganti  and  waited  for  the  two  women, 
the  singer  and  the  actress,  who  had  promised  to 
meet  him  at  the  well. 

At  every  instant  his  expectation  became  more 
anxious.  The  immense  cry  rising  round  the  outer 
walls  of  the  palace  reached  him  and  then  lost  itself 
in  the  heavens  that  were  illumined  by  a  red  glare  as 
of  a  conflagration.  An  almost  terrible  joy  seemed 
spreading  over  the  Sea-City.  It  seemed  that  a  vehe- 
ment breath  had  suddenly  come  to  dilate  the  narrow 
hearts,  and  that  a  superabundance  of  sensual  life  was 
swelling  the  arteries  of  man.  The  repetition  of  the 
Bacchic  chorus  celebrating  the  crown  of  stars  laid 
by  Aphrodite  on  the  forgetful  head  of  Ariadne,  the 
great  hymn  of  glory  followed  by  the  supreme  clam- 
ours of  the  revels  of  Thiaros,  had  drawn  a  cry  from 
the  throng  gathered  on  the  Molo  under  the  open 
balconies. 

At  the  final  elevation,  in  unison  on  the  word 
"  Viva!"  in  the  chorus  of  Maenads,  Satyrs,  and 
Egipans,  the  chorus  of  the  populace  in  the  harbour 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       87 

of  San  Marco  had  answered  like  a  formidable  echo. 
And  at  that  point  it  had  seemed  as  if  their  delirium, 
remembering  the  woods  burned  of  old  on  the  sacred 
nights,  had  given  the  signal  of  the  conflagration  in 
which  the  beauty  of  Venice  was  finally  to  stand 
resplendent. 

The  dream  of  Paris  Eglano  flashed  on  Stelio's 
desire,  —  the  spectacle  of  the  miraculous  flames 
offered  to  love  on  the  floating  bed.  The  image  of 
Donatella  Arvale  persisted  in  his  eyes :  a  nimble, 
youthful  figure,  powerful  and  shapely,  standing  out 
of  the  forest  of  sound  in  the  midst  of  the  alternating 
motion  of  the  bows  that  seemed  to  draw  their  note 
from  the  hidden  music  that  was  in  her.  And,  with 
a  strange  pain  in  which  there  passed  something  like 
a  shadow  of  horror,  he  saw  the  image  of  the  other 
woman,  —  poisoned  by  art,  overcharged  with  volup- 
tuous knowledge,  her  eloquent  mouth  full  of  the 
savours  of  maturity  and  corruption,  a  dryness  as  of 
fever  in  her  hands  that  had  pressed  the  juice  from 
all  deceitful  fruits,  and  the  traces  of  a  hundred  masks 
on  her  face  that  had  shammed  the  fury  of  mortal 
passions.  To-night  at  last,  after  the  long  interme 
diate  desire,  he  was  to  receive  the  gift  of  the  age- 
ing body,  that  was  saturated  with  caresses  and  yet 
still  unknown  to  him.  How  he  had  trembled  and 
vibrated  a  little  while  ago,  as  he  sat  by  the  side 
of  the  silent  woman,  gliding  towards  the  City  Beau- 
tiful on  waters  that  had  seemed  to  both  as  if  rushing 
through  a  fearful  clepsydra !  Ah,  why  was  she  now 
coming  towards  him  with  the  other  temptress?  Why 
was  she  placing,  by  the  side  of  her  knowledge  full  of 
despair,  the  pure  splendour  of  that  young  life? 


88  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

With  a  deep  throb  he  noticed  the  figure  of  la 
Foscarina  standing  in  the  light  of  the  smoking 
torches  at  the  top  of  the  marble  staircase,  so  tightly 
pressed  by  the  crowd  upon  that  of  Donatella  Arvale 
that  they  blended  into  each  other  in  one  same  white- 
ness. His  eyes  followed  them  down  the  staircase  in 
the  same  suspense,  as  if  at  every  step  they  were  put- 
ting their  feet  on  the  margin  of  an  abyss.  In  those 
brief  hours  the  stranger  had  already  lived  within 
him  a  life  so  intense  that  his  emotion  on  seeing  her 
draw  near  him  was  such  as  he  would  have  felt  had 
he  suddenly  been  met  by  the  living  incarnation  of 
one  of  the  ideal  creatures  born  of  his  art. 

She  was  coming  slowly  down  through  the  human 
tide  that  her  song  had  raised  for  a  moment  to  the 
height  of  joy.  Behind  her,  the  Palace  of  the  Doges, 
crossed  by  sudden  flashes  and  confused  sounds,  gave 
the  impression  of  one  of  those  fabulous  awakenings 
that  suddenly  transfigure  the  inaccessible  palaces  in 
the  midst  of  a  wood  where  the  long  hair  on  some  royal 
head  had  grown  in  their  solitude  through  the  ages, 
feeding  on  their  silence  like  the  eternal  willows  on 
a  lethal  river.  The  two  guardian  Giants  blazed  red 
in  the  red  light  of  the  torches;  the  cusp  of  the 
Golden  Gate  glittered  with  little  lamps ;  beyond  the 
north  wing,  the  five  cupolas  of  the  basilica  reigned 
in  the  heavens  like  vast  mitres  studded  with  chryso- 
lites. And  still  the  great  clamour  rose,  rose  above 
the  crowd  of  marbles,  bold  as  the  lowing  of  the 
sea  in  a  storm  against  the  walls  of  Malamocco. 
Stelio  saw  the  two  temptresses  come  to  his  desire 
in  the  midst  of  this  festive  tumult,  in  this  con- 
trast of  unusual  appearances,  both  emerging  from 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME       89 

the  crowd  as  from  the  clasp  of  a  monster.  And 
his  desire  pictured  to  him  extraordinary  promiscui- 
ties which  he  believed  could  be  realised  with  the 
facility  of  dreams  and  the  solemnity  of  liturgic 
ceremonies.  He  thought  Perdita  must  be  leading 
that  magnificent  prey  to  him  for  some  recondite 
aim  of  beauty,  for  some  great  work  of  love  which 
she  herself  would  help  him  accomplish.  Perdita's 
words  that  night,  he  thought,  would  be  wonderful 
in  their  meaning.  And  the  indefinable  melancholy 
he  had  felt  on  leaning  over  the  bronze  edge,  on 
gazing  at  the  reflection  of  the  stars  in  the  dark 
inner  well,  passed  over  his  spirit;  he  seemed  to  feel 
himself  in  the  expectation  of  some  event  about  to 
stir  that  secret  soul  in  the  last  depths  of  his  being 
which  had  remained,  like  the  mirror  of  water,  un- 
moved and  strange  and  intangible.  By  the  dizzy 
quickening  of  his  thoughts,  he  understood  that  he 
had  attained  the  state  of  grace,  that  he  was  near 
the  divine  delirium  which  only  the  virtues  of  the 
lagoon  could  give  him.  And  he  went  forth  from  the 
shadow  to  meet  the  two  women  with  an  intoxicating 
presentiment. 

"  Oh,  Effrena,"  la  Foscarina  said,  coming  up  to 
the  well,  "  I  did  not  hope  to  find  you  here.  We 
are  very  late,  are  we  not?  But  we  were  hemmed  in 
by  the  crowd  without  escape,    ..." 

Turning  to  her  companion,  she  added,  smiling, 
*'  Donatella,  here  is  the  Lord  of  the  Flame." 

Without  speaking,  yet  smiling,  Donatella  Arvale 
acknowledged  Stelio's  deep  salute. 

Drawing  her  towards  her,  la  Foscarina  resumed : 

*'  We  must  go  and  look  for  our  gondola.     It  is  wait 


90  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

ing  for  us  at  the  Ponte  della  Paglia.  Are  you  coming 
with  us,  Effrena?  We  must  seize  our  moment.  The 
crowd  is  rushing  towards  the  Piazzetta.  The  Queen 
comes  out  by  the  Porta  della  Carta." 

A  long,  united  cry  greeted  the  appearance  of  the 
fair  pearled  Queen  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  whence 
at  one  time,  in  the  presence  of  the  people,  the  Doge 
was  wont  to  receive  the  ducal  ensign.  Once  more 
the  name  of  the  white  starry  flower  and  of  the  pure 
pearl  was  repeated  by  the  crowd  and  echoed  by  the 
marble.  Flashes  of  joy  sparkled  in  the  sky;  a  thou- 
sand pigeons  of  fire  flew  away  from  the  pinnacles  of 
San  Marco  like  flaming  messengers, 

"  The  Epiphany  of  the  Flame,"  exclaimed  la 
Foscarina,  as  on  reaching  the  Molo  she  came  upon 
the  hallucinating  spectacle. 

By  her  side  Donatella  Arvale  and  Stelio  Effrena 
stopped,  struck  with  wonder,  looking  at  each  other 
with  dazed  eyes.  And  their  faces,  lit  up  by  the 
reflection,  shone  as  if  they  were  bending  over  a 
furnace  or   the  mouth  of  a  crater. 


All  the  innumerable  appearances  of  volatile  and 
many-coloured  Fire  spread  over  the  firmament, 
crawled  on  the  water,  twined  round  the  masts  of  the 
vessels,  garlanded  the  cupolas  and  the  towers,  adorned 
the  entablatures,  wrapped  themselves  round  the 
statues,  budded  on  the  capitals,  enriched  every  line, 
transfigured  every  aspect  of  the  sacred  and  profane 
architectures  in  the  midst  of  which  the  deep  harbour 
was  like  an  enchanted  mirror  that  multiplied  the 
marble.     The  astonished  eye  could  no  longer  distin- 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       91 

guish  the  quality  of  the  various  elements :  it  was 
deluded  by  a  mobile  and  measureless  vision,  all  the 
forms  of  which  lived  a  lucid,  fluid  life  suspended  in 
vibrating  ether,  so  that  the  slim  prows  curving  on  the 
waters  and  the  myriad  pigeons  of  fire  in  the  heavens 
seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  a  similar  flight  and 
to  both  reach  the  summit  of  the  immaterial  edifices. 
That  which  in  the  twilight  had  seemed  a  silvery 
palace  dedicated  to  Neptune  and  built  after  the  like- 
ness of  tortuous  marine  forms,  had  now  become  a 
temple  built  by  the  willing  genii  of  Fire.  It  seemed, 
on  a  giant  scale,  one  of  those  labyrinthian  dwellings 
rising  on  the  andirons  at  the  hundred  doors  of  which 
the  two-faced  presages  with  their  ambiguous  gestures 
appear  to  the  watching  maiden  ;  it  seemed,  on  a  giant 
scale,  one  of  those  frail,  regal  palaces,  all  vermilion, 
at  the  thousand  windows  of  which  the  salamander 
princesses  look  out  for  an  instant,  laughing  voluptu- 
ously at  the  thoughtful  poet.  The  sphere  of  the 
Fortuna,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Atlantides, 
radiated  on  the  triple  loggia  near  by,  rosy  as  a  wan- 
ing moon,  a  cycle  of  satellites  springing  from  its 
reflection.  From  the  Riva,  from  San  Giorgio,  from 
the  Giudecca,  fiery  bunches  of  stars  sparkled  cease- 
lessly, converged  on  high  and  burst  there  into  roses, 
lilies,  palms,  into  flowers  of  Paradise  forming  an  aerial 
garden  that  continually  melted  and  continually  re- 
newed itself  with  ever  richer  and  stranger  blossoms. 
It  was  like  a  rapid  succession  of  supernal  springs  and 
autumns;  an  immense  rain  of  sparks  made  of  leaves 
and  petals  fell  from  the  dissolution  of  the  heavens, 
wrapping  all  things  in  its  tremulous  gold.  Through 
the  gap  that  opened  out  in  that  thickness  one  could 


92  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

see  still  far  off  a  beflagged  flotilla  advancing  from 
the  lagoon:  a  flock  of  galleys  similar  perhaps  to 
that  which  might  float  through  the  dream  of  a  child 
of  pleasure,  sleeping  his  last  sleep  on  a  bed  steeped 
in  deadly  perfumes ;  like  those  dream-vessels,  they 
too  perhaps  had  cables  made  of  the  twisted  hair  of 
female  slaves  brought  from  conquered  countries  and 
still  dripping  with  sweet  oils;  like  them,  perhaps, 
their  hulls  too  were  full  of  myrrh,  spikenard,  ben- 
zoin, balsam  of  Syria,  cinnamon,  all  the  aromas ; 
and  of  sandal,  cedar,  terebinth,  all  the  odoriferous 
woods  in  different  layers.  The  indescribable  colours 
of  the  flags  that  adorned  them  suggested  perfumes 
and  spices.  Blue  and  green  and  greenish  blue, 
crocus-coloured,  violet,  and  of  indistinct  blendings, 
those  flags  seemed  to  escape  from  an  internal  con- 
flagration and  to  have  been  coloured  by  unknown 
processes.  Thus,  perhaps,  in  the  fury  of  ancient 
sieges  fire  was  set  to  reservoirs  that  contained  the 
essences  destined  to  the  wives  of  the  Syrian  princes ; 
and  thus,  on  the  water  dotted  over  by  the  molten 
matters  gathered  in  its  hulls,  the  magnificent  lost 
fleet  advanced  towards  the  harbour,  slowly  as  if  its 
pilots  were  ecstatic  dreams  that  would  lead  it  to  the 
foot  of  the  columned  Lion,  there  to  consume  itself 
like  a  gigantic  votive  pyre,  perfuming  and  stupefying 
the  soul  of  Venice  for  all  eternity. 

"  The  Epiphany  of  the  Flame  !  What  an  unfore- 
seen commentary  to  your  poem,  Effrena !  The  City 
of  Life  responds  by  a  miracle  to  your  act  of  adora- 
tion. She  is  all  burning,  through  her  veil  of  water. 
Are  you  not  satisfied?  Look!  Millions  of  golden 
pomegranates  are  hanging  everywhere." 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       93 

The  actress  was  smiling  and  the  festival  illumined 
her  face.  She  seemed  under  the  empire  of  that 
singular  gaiety  of  hers  that  Stelio  well  knew,  and 
that  because  of  its  dull  creaking  sound  gave  him  the 
idea  of  a  deep,  shut-up  house  where  violent  hands 
suddenly  opened  all  the  doors  and  windows,  causing 
them  to  turn  on  their  corroded  hinges. 

"  We  must  praise  Ariadne,"  he  said,  "  for  having 
given  this  harmony  its  highest  note." 

He  only  said  those  words  that  the  singer  might 
be  induced  to  speak,  only  because  of  his  desire  to 
hear  what  the  tone  of  her  voice  would  be  when  not 
lifted  up  in  song.  But  his  praise  was  lost  in  the 
reiterated  clamour  of  the  crowd  that  overflowed  on 
the  Molo,  making  delay  impossible.  From  the  shore 
where  he  stood  he  helped  the  two  friends  into  their 
gondola,  then  sat  down  on  the  stool  at  their  knee, 
and  the  long  dentellated  prow,  throwing  out  sparks, 
entered  into  the  enchantment. 

"  To  the  Rio  Marin,  by  the  Canalazzo,"  la  Foscarina 
ordered  the  boatman.  "Do  you  know,  Effrena,  we 
are  going  to  have  some  of  your  best  friends  to 
supper,  —  Francesco  de  Lizo,  Daniele  Glauro,  Prince 
Hoditz,  Antimo  della  Bella,  Fabio  Molza,  Baldassare 
Stampa  —  ? " 

"  It  is  going  to  be  a  banquet,  then?  " 

"  Alas  !  not  that  of  Cana !  " 

"  But  will  Lady  Myrta  not  be  there  with  her 
Veronese-like  greyhounds?" 

"  Certainly,  Lady  Myrta  will  not  fail ;  did  you  not 
see  her  in  the  hall?  She  was  sitting  in  one  of  the 
first  rows  wrapped  up  in  you." 

Because  they  had  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes 


94  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

as  they  spoke,  a  sudden  confusion  invaded  them. 
And  the  remembrance  of  the  full  twilight  hour  they 
had  lived  on  that  same  water  cleaved  by  that  same 
oar  filled  their  souls  like  a  tide  of  troubled  blood; 
they  were  surprised  by  a  swift  return  of  that  same 
anguish  which  both  had  felt  when  on  the  point  of 
leaving  behind  them  the  silence  of  the  estuary  already 
in  the  power  of  shadow  and  death.  And  their  lips 
rebelled  against  vain,  deceitful  words,  and  their  souls 
withdrew  from  the  effort  of  inclining  themselves  for 
the  sake  of  prudence  towards  the  passing  ornaments 
of  the  life  of  joy  that  now  seemed  worthless,  absorbed 
as  they  were  in  the  consideration  of  the  strange  figures 
that  were  rising  from  their  own  depth  with  an  aspect 
of  monstrous  wealth  never  before  seen,  like  the  heaped 
up  treasures  that  shafts  of  light  were  discovering  in 
the  night  waters. 

And  because  they  were  silent  as  they  had  been 
when  they  approached  the  vessel  with  the  descending 
flag,  they  felt  the  presence  of  the  creature  of  music 
weigh  the  more  heavily  on  their  silence,  as  in  the 
interval  when  they  had  first  heard  her  name ;  and, 
little  by  little,  that  weight  became  intolerable. 
Nevertheless,  she  appeared  to  be  as  distant  from 
Stelio,  who  was  sitting  at  her  knee,  as  she  had  been 
a  moment  ago  among  the  forest  of  instruments :  apart 
and  unconscious,  as  a  moment  ago  in  the  joy  of  her 
song.     She  had  not  yet  spoken. 

Almost  timidly  and  only  to  hear  her  speak,  Stelio 
asked  her:  — 

"  Are  you  staying  some  time  longer  in  Venice?" 

He  had  tried  to  choose  the  words  he  should  address 
to  her :  all  those  that  had  come  as  far  as  his  lips  had 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       95 

troubled  him,  had  seemed  too  full  of  ambiguous 
meanings,  too  much  alive,  insidious,  fit  for  incal- 
culable transformations  of  life  like  the  unknown 
seed  from  which  spring  the  thousand  roots.  And 
it  had  seemed  to  him  that  none  of  these  could  be 
heard  by  Perdita  too  without  her  love  being  left  the 
sadder  for  them. 

Only  after  having  uttered  the  simple,  usual  question 
he  noticed  that  even  in  its  words  an  infinity  of  hope 
and  desire  could  lie  hidden. 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  to-morrow,"  answered  Dona- 
tella Arvale ;  "  even  now  I  ought  not  to  be  here." 

Her  voice,  that  was  so  clear  and  powerful  in  the 
heights  of  song,  sounded  low  and  sober  as  if  suffused 
with  a  slight  opaque  quality,  suggesting  the  image  of 
a  precious  metal  wrapped  in  the  most  delicate  velvet. 
Her  brief  answer  suggested  a  place  of  suffering  to 
which  she  was  about  to  return,  where  she  would 
submit  herself  to  some  well-known  torture ;  a  sor- 
rowful strength  of  will,  like  iron  tempered  in  tears, 
sparkled  through  the  veil  of  her  young  beauty. 

"  To-morrow  1 "  exclaimed  Stelio,  with  sincere  regret. 
"  Have  you  heard,  Signora?" 

"  I  know,"  said  la  Foscarina,  gently,  taking  Dona- 
tella's hand.  "  And  it  is  a  great  sorrow  to  me  to  see 
her  go.  But  she  cannot  remain  too  long  away  from 
her  father.     Perhaps  you  still  ignore  .  .  ." 

"What?"  Stelio  asked  quickly.  "Is  he  ill?  It 
is  true,  then,  that  Lorenzo  Arvale  is  ill !  " 

"  No,  he  is  tired,"  la  Foscarina  answered,  touching 
her  forehead  with  an  involuntary  gesture  that  showed 
Stelio  the  horrible  threat  hanging  over  the  genius  of 
the  artist  who  had  seemed  as  fertile  and  untiring  as 


g6  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

one  of  the  old  masters :  a  Delia  Robbia  or  a  Verroc- 
chio.  "  He  is  only  tired.  He  needs  rest  and  sooth- 
ing balsams,  and  his  daughter's  song  is  an  unequalled 
balm  to  him.  Do  not  you  too,  Effrena,  believe  in  the 
healing  power  of  music?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  said.  "  Ariadne  has  a  divine  gift 
by  which  her  power  transcends  all  limits." 

The  name  of  Ariadne  came  spontaneously  to  his 
lips  to  indicate  the  singer  such  as  he  saw  her.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  utter  the  girl's  own 
name  preceded  by  the  ordinary  generic  epithet  im- 
posed by  social  customs.  As  he  saw  her,  she  was 
singular  and  entire,  freed  from  the  small  ties  of  cus- 
tom, living  her  own  secluded  life,  like  a  great  work 
on  which  style  should  have  set  its  inviolable  seal.  In 
his  eyes,  she  was  isolated  like  those  figures  that  stand 
out  because  of  sharp  and  deepened  outline,  a  stranger 
to  ordinary  life,  fixed  on  some  profoundly  secret 
thought ;  and  already,  before  the  intensity  of  that 
concentration,  he  felt  a  kind  of  passionate  impatience 
not  dissimilar  to  that  of  the  curious  man  who  should 
find  himself  before  sbme  hermetically  closed  thing 
that  tempts  him. 

"  Ariadne  had  for  the  healing  of  her  sorrows 
that  gift  of  oblivion,"  she  said,  "  which  is  denied 
to  me." 

A  perhaps  involuntary  bitterness  coloured  her 
words.  In  it  Stelio  perceived  the  landmarks  of  an 
aspiration  towards  some  life  that  should  be  less 
oppressed  by  useless  suffering.  His  rapid  intuition 
divined  her  indignation  at  her  state  of  slavery,  her 
horror  of  the  sacrifice  to  which  she  was  forcing  her- 
self, the  vehement  desire  in  her  of  rising  towards  joy, 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME      97 

and  the  aptitude  in  her  of  being  drawn  like  a  beauti* 
ful  bow  by  some  strong  hand  that  should  know  how 
to  use  it  as  its  weapon  for  a  great  conquest.  He 
divined  that  she  had  lost  all  hope  of  her  father's 
recovery;  that  it  was  painful  to  her  to  henceforth 
feel  herself  no  more  than  the  custodian  of  an  extin- 
guished hearth,  of  ashes  that  had  no  sparks ;  and  the 
image  of  the  great  stricken  artist  appeared  to  him 
not  such  as  he  was,  since  he  had  never  seen  his  per- 
ishable mask,  but  such  as  he  was  pictured  to  him 
by  the  ideas  of  beauty  which  he  had  expressed  in 
lasting  bronze  and  marble.  And  he  gazed  fixedly  at 
that  image  in  an  agony  of  terror  more  icy  than  that 
which  the  most  awful  aspects  of  death  could  have 
inspired.  And  all  his  strength  and  all  his  pride 
and  all  his  desire  seemed  to  resound  within  him 
like  a  bundle  of  arms  scattered  by  a  threatening 
hand,  and  there  was  no  fibre  in  him  which  did  not 
quiver. 

La  Foscarina  raised  the  funeral  pall  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  splendours  of  the  festival  had  changed 
the  gondola  into  a  coffin. 

"  See  there,  Efirena,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
balcony  of  Desdemona's  house.  "  See  the  fair 
Nineta  receiving  the  homage  of  the  Serenade  seated 
between  her  monkey  and  her  pet  dog." 

"  Ah,  the  fair  Nineta,"  exclaimed  Stelio,  shaking 
off  his  sad  thoughts,  bending  towards  the  smiling  bal- 
cony and,  with  cordial  vivacity,  sending  a  greeting  to 
the  little  woman  who  was  listening  to  the  musicians  by 
the  light  of  two  silver  candelabra.  Garlands  of  the 
year's  last  roses  hung  entwined  about  the  sconces. 
**  I  have  not  seen  her  again  yet.     She  is  the  gentlest 


98  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  most  graceful  animal  I  know.  What  a  piece  of 
good  fortune  it  was  for  our  dear  Hoditz  to  have  dis- 
covered her  behind  the  lid  of  a  harpsichord  while 
rummaging  in  an  old  curiosity  shop  at  San  Samuele  ! 
Two  pieces  of  good  fortune  in  one  day:  the  fair 
Nineta  and  a  lid  painted  by  Pordenone.  From  that 
day  the  harmony  of  his  life  has  been  complete.  How 
I  should  like  you  to  penetrate  to  his  nest !  You 
would  find  there  a  truly  admirable  example  of  what  I 
was  saying  to-day  at  sunset.  Here  is  a  man  who  by 
obeying  his  native  taste  for  subtlety  has  composed 
his  own  little  fable  with  minute  art,  and  in  it  he  lives 
as  happy  as  his  Moravian  ancestor  in  the  arcadia  of 
Rosswald.  Ah,  how  many  exquisite  things  I  know 
of  him !  " 

A  w\d&  peota  adorned  with  many-coloured  lanterns 
full  of  singers  and  musicians  was  floating  under  the 
house  of  Desdemona.  The  old  song  of  brief  youth 
and  passing  beauty  rose  sweetly  to  the  little  woman 
who  listened,  smiling  her  childlike  smile,  between 
her  monkey  and  her  little  dog  as  in  a  print  by  Pietro 
Longhi. 

•*  Do  beni  vu  ghave, 
Beleza  e  zoventu ; 
Co  i  va  no  i  torna  piu, 
Nina,  mia  cara."* 

"  Don't  you  think  that  this  is  the  true  soul  of 
Venice  and  that  the  other  one  which  you  have  pic- 

*  "  Two  good  things  are  yours, 
Beauty  and  youth ; 
When  they  go  they  will  not  return 
Nina,  my  dear." 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME       99 

tured  to  the  crowd  is  only  your  own,  Effrena?"  said 
la  Foscarina,  her  head  swaying  a  little  to  the  languid 
melody  that  floated  all  along  the  Grand  Canal, 
repeated  far  away  by  the  other  song-boats. 

"  No,  this  is  not  it,"  answered  Stelio,  "  There  is 
within  each  of  us,  flitting  like  a  butterfly  on  the  sur- 
face of  our  deep  souls,  a  more  trivial  soul,  an  animula 
vagula,  a.  slight  playful*spirit  that  often  carries  us  away 
and  persuades  us  to  yield  to  easy,  mediocre  pleasures, 
to  puerile  pastimes  and  light  melodies.  This  ani- 
mula vagula  is  there,  even  in  the  gravest  and  most 
violent  natures,  like  the  clown  attached  to  the  per- 
son of  Othello,  and  often  it  deceives  our  judgment. 
You  are  listening  now  to  the  child-soul  of  Venice, 
humming  on  its  guitars ;  but  her  real  soul  is  only 
to  be  discovered  in  her  silence,  and  most  terribly, 
be  sure  of  that,  in  full  summer,  in  the  full  noon- 
tide, like  the  great  Pan.  Nevertheless,  there  on 
the  harbour  of  San  Marco  I  had  indeed  thought 
that  you  were  feeling  its  vibration  in  the  immense 
conflagration.  You  are  forgetting  Giorgione  for 
Rosalba." 

Round  the  peota  full  of  song  other  boats  had  as- 
sembled, full  of  languid  women,  who  turned  towards 
the  music  with  gestures  of  lassitude,  as  if  on  the 
point  of  sinking  into  invisible  arms.  And  round  all 
that  accumulated  voluptuousness,  the  reflections  of 
the  lanterns  in  the  water  trembled  like  a  flowering 
of  luminous  multicoloured  water-lilies. 

**  Se  lassar^  passar 
La  bela  e  fresca  etk, 
Un  zorno  i  ve  dii^ 
Vechia  maura ; 


100  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

E  bramar^,  ma  invan, 
Quel  che  shavevi  in  man 
Co  avh  lassk  scampar 
La  congiontura."  * 

It  was  truly  the  song  of  the  year's  last  roses  fading 
away  as  they  twined  round  the  sconces.  In  Perdita's 
soul  it  conjured  up  the  pageant  of  dead  summer, 
the  opalescent  veil  in  which  Stelio  had  wrapped  the 
gentle  corpse  dressed  in  gold.  Through  the  glass 
sealed  by  the  Lord  of  the  Flame,  she  could  see  her 
own  image  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  lagoon,  on 
its  field  of  seaweeds.  A  sudden  chill  took  hold  of 
her  limbs;  again  the  horror  and  disgust  of  her  own 
ageing  body  gripped  her.  And,  remembering  the 
recent  promise,  thinking  how  her  beloved  might  that 
very  night  exact  the  keeping  of  it,  her  whole  body 
contracted  in  the  pulsation  of  her  sorrowful  modesty 
made  of  fear  and  of  pride.  Her  experienced,  des- 
pairing eyes  ran  over  the  woman  beside  her,  sought 
her  out,  penetrated  her,  felt  her  occult  but  certain 
strength,  her  intact  freshness,  her  pure  healthiness, 
and  that  indefinable  virtue  of  love  emanating  like 
an  aroma  from  the  chaste  bodies  of  virgins  once  they 
have  attained  the  perfection  of  their  blossoming. 
She  seemed  to  admit  the  secret  affinity  that  already 
ran  between  the  girl  and  the  Life-giver.  She  seemed 
to  divine  the  words  with  which  he  silently  addressed 
her.    The   anguish   was   so   fearful   that   it   bit  her 

1  "  If  you  let  your  fine,  fresh  age  pass  away, 
One  day  it  will  call  you 
A  ripened  old  thing ; 
And  you  will  desire,  but  in  vain. 
All  that  you  had 
When  you  let  the  occasion  slip." 


THE  EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     loi 

bosom  intolerably,  and  her  convulsed  fingers  clutched 
the  black  rope  running  along  the  side  of  the  gon* 
dola,  and  the  little  metal  griffin  that  held  it  creaked 
at  her  involuntary  movement. 

That  movement  did  not  escape  Stelio,  who  was 
watching  her  anxiously.  He  understood  her  ex« 
treme  anguish  and  himself  suffered  from  it  acutely 
for  a  few  moments ;  but  his  feeling  was  mixed  with 
an  almost  angry  impatience,  because  her  anguish, 
like  a  cry  of  destruction,  crossed  and  interrupted  a 
fiction  of  transcendant  life  that  he  had  been  in- 
wardly composing  in  order  to  conciliate  the  con- 
trast, to  conquer  the  new  force  presenting  itself 
before  him,  like  a  bow  ready  to  be  drawn,  and  at 
the  same  time  not  to  lose  the  savour  of  that  maturity 
which  life  had  steeped  in  all  its  essences,  the  benefit 
of  that  passionate  attention  and  faith  by  which  his 
intellect  was  sharpened,  as  by  a  kindling  drug,  and 
his  pride  nourished  as  by  a  continual  act  of  praise. 
*'  Ah,  Perdita,"  he  was  thinking,  "  why  has  not  a 
pure  spirit  of  human  love  sprung  from  the  fermen- 
tation of  your  numberless  human  loves?  Ah,  why 
have  I  finally  conquered  you  with  my  desire,  al- 
though I  know  that  it  is  too  late ;  and  why  do  you 
let  me  read  in  your  eyes  the  certainty  of  your  com- 
ing gift,  in  the  midst  of  a  flood  of  doubts  that  will 
not  be  sufficient  to  revive  the  abolished  prohibition? 
Both  of  us,  well  knowing  that  all  the  ability  of  our 
long  communion  was  in  that  prohibition,  have  not 
known  how  to  preserve  it,  and  are  going  to  yield 
blindly,  at  the  last  hour,  to  the  command  of  a  tur- 
bid, nocturnal  voice.  Even  a  little  while  ago,  when 
your  head  was  standing  out  from  the  belt  of  con- 


I02  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

stellations,  I  no  longer  saw  in  you  the  carnal  mis- 
tress, but  the  muse  and  the  apostle  of  my  poetry. 
And  all  the  gratitude  of  my  soul  went  out  to  you 
for  your  promise  of  glory,  not  for  your  promise  of 
pleasure.  Have  you  not  understood,  as  you  always 
do?  With  marvellous  fancy,  as  ever,  have  you  not 
led  my  desire  along  the  ray  of  your  smile  towards 
something  resplendent  with  youth  that  you  yourself 
had  chosen  and  reserved  for  me?  In  descending 
the  staircase  and  coming  towards  me  together  with 
her,  had  you  not  the  appearance  of  one  bearing  a 
gift,  of  one  bringing  an  unexpected  announcement? 
Nor  wholly  unwaited  for,  Perdita,  not  wholly  un- 
waited  for,  because  I  knew  some  extraordinary  act 
must  come  from  your  infinite  wisdom." 

"  How  happy  the  fair  Nineta  is  with  her  monkey 
and  her  little  dog !  "  sighed  the  despairing  woman, 
looking  back  towards  the  light  song  and  the  laughing 

balcony. 

"  La  zoventu  xe  un  fior 
Che  apena  nato  el  mor, 
E  un  zorno  gnanco  mi 
No  saro  quela."  ^ 

Also  Donatella  Arvale  turned  and  Stelio  Efifrena 
with  her.  The  light  skiff  carried  the  three  faces  of 
that  heavy  destiny,  without  sinking,  over  the  water 
and  the  music. 

"  E  vegna  quel  che  vol, 
Lass^  che  vaga ! "  * 

*  "  Youth  is  a  flower 

No  sooner  born  than  dead  j 

And  I,  too,  one  day, 

Will  be  the  same  no  longer." 

•  *•  And  come  what  will. 

And  let  it  go  1 " 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     103 

All  along  the  Grand  Canal,  repeated  in  the  dis- 
tance by  all  the  boats,  flowed  the  melody  of  transient 
pleasure.  Fascinated  by  its  rhythm,  the  slaves  of 
the  oar  united  their  voices  to  the  joyful  chorus. 
That  joy,  which  had  seemed  terrible  to  the  Life-giver, 
when  he  heard  it  in  the  first  cry  of  the  crowd  massed 
on  the  Molo,  had  now  become  attenuated,  more  las- 
civious, had  blossomed  into  grace  and  playfulness, 
had  become  soft  and  indulgent.  The  more  frivo- 
lous soul  of  Venice  repeated  the  refrain  of  forgetful 
life,  lightly  touching  its  guitars  and  dancing  among 
the  festoons  of  lanterns. 

"  E  vegna  quel  che  vol, 
Lass^  che  vaga  !  " 

Suddenly,  in  the  curve  of  the  canal,  before  the  red 
palace  of  the  Foscari,  a  great  galleon  flamed  like  a 
burning  tower.  More  lightning  crackled  in  the  sky. 
More  fiery  pigeons  flew  up  from  the  fortress,  sur- 
passed the  small  light  towers,  slipped  down  along  the 
marbles,  fluttered,  hissed  on  the  water,  multiplied 
themselves  in  numberless  sparks,  and  floated  there, 
smoking.  Along  the  parapets,  from  the  decks,  from 
the  poop,  from  the  prow,  a  thousand  fountains  of  fire 
opened  up,  dilated,  blended,  illuminating  the  canal 
from  one  part  to  the  other,  painting  it  a  violent  red 
as  far  as  San  Vitale,  as  far  as  the  Rialto.  The  gal- 
leon disappeared  from  sight,  transformed  by  the  ceas- 
ing of  the  fireworks  into  a  purplish  thunder-cloud. 

"  Turn  down  San  Polo,  turn  down  San  Polo,"  la 
Foscarina  called  to  the  oarsman,  lowering  her  head 
as  under  a  storm,  and  pressing  her  hands  to  her  ears 
to  defend  them  from  the  roar. 

And  with    dazzled    eyes   Donatella   Arvale    and 


I04  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

Stelio  Effrena  again  glanced  at  each  other.  And 
their  faces  were  as  resplendent,  lit  up  by  the  reflected 
glare,  as  if  both  had  been  bending  over  a  furnace  or 
the  mouth  of  a  crater. 

The  gondola  entered  the  canal  of  San  Polo  and 
slipped  into  its  shade.  A  sudden  veil  of  ice  fell  on 
its  three  silent  occupants.  Under  the  arch  of  the 
bridge,  the  cadence  of  the  oar  struck  upon  their  souls 
and  the  noise  of  the  festival  seemed  infinitely  far 
away.  All  the  houses  were  dark ;  the  belfry  rose 
lonely  and  silent  among  the  stars,  the  Campiello  del 
Renter  and  the  Campiello  del  Pistor  were  deserted, 
and  the  grass  breathed  there  in  peace ;  the  trees 
hanging  over  the  walls  of  the  little  gardens  seemed 
to  feel  their  leaves  dying  on  their  branches  lifted  up 
to  the  quiet  sky. 


"  The  rhythm  of  art  and  the  pulse  of  life  then  have 
again  beaten  in  Venice  with  one  same  throb,  at  least 
for  a  few  hours,"  said  Daniele  Glauro,  lifting  from  the 
table  a  chalice  from  which  only  the  sacred  Host  was 
missing.  "  Let  me  express,  also,  in  the  name  of  so 
many  who  are  absent,  the  gratitude  and  fervour  that 
are  blending  in  one  single  image  of  beauty  the  three 
persons  to  whom  we  owe  the  miracle,  —  the  lady  of 
the  banquet,  the  daughter  of  Lorenzo  Arvale,  and 
the  poet  of  Persephone." 

"Why  the  lady  of  the  banquet,  Glauro?"  la  Fos- 
carina  asked,  smiling,  with  astonished  grace.  "  I,  like 
yourself,  have  not  given  but  have  received  joy.  It  is 
Donatella  whom  we  should  crown  and  Stelio  Efifrena 
The  glory  of  it  goes  to  both." 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     105 

"  But  your  silent  presence  in  the  Hall  of  the  Greater 
Council,  near  the  celestial  sphere,  a  little  while  ago," 
answered  the  mystic  doctor,  "  was  not  less  eloquent 
than  Stelio's  words,  nor  less  musical  than  Ariadne's 
song.  Once  more  you  have  divinely  carved  your 
own  statue  in  silence,  and  it  shall  live  in  our  mem- 
ory together  with  the  words  and  the  song." 

Stelio  Effrena,  with  a  deep,  inward  shiver,  again 
saw  the  ephemeral,  versatile  monster  from  whose  side 
the  tragic  muse  had  emerged,  with  her  head  lifted  to 
the  belt  of  constellations. 

"  True,  true,"  exclaimed  Francesco  de  Lizo.  "  I 
think  so  too.  Whoever  saw  you,  while  listening  to 
the  song,  the  words,  and  the  symphony,  could  not 
but  recognise  in  you  the  visible  centre  of  that  ideal 
world  that  each  one  of  us  —  us  the  faithful,  us  the 
near  ones  —  felt  was  growing  out  of  his  own  aspi- 
rations." 

"  Each  one  of  us,"  said  Fabio  Molza,  "  felt  that  there 
was  great  and  unusual  significance  in  your  person  as 
it  stood  before  the  poet,  dominating  the  crowd." 

"It  seemed  that  you  alone  were  about  to  assist  at 
the  mysterious  birth  of  a  new  idea,"  said  Antimo 
della  Bella;  "everything  seemed  animating  itself  to 
generate  that  idea  which  must  soon  be  revealed  to  us, 
if  having  waited  for  it  with  so  much  faith  has  made 
us  at  all  worthy." 

The  Life-giver,  with  another  shudder,  felt  the  work 
which  he  was  nourishing  leap  within  him,  formless 
still,  but  already  a  living  thing,  and  his  whole  soul 
stretched  out  with  an  impetuous  movement,  as  if 
carried  away  by  a  lyric  breath,  towards  the  power  of 
fertilisation  and  of  revelation  that  emanated  from  the 


io6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Dionysian  woman  to  whom  the  praise  of  those  fer- 
vent spirits  was  rising. 

She  had  suddenly  become  very  beautiful,  a  noctur- 
nal creature  forged  out  of  dreams  and  passions  on  an 
anvil  of  gold,  a  breathing  image  of  immortal  fate  and 
eternal  enigmas.  Although  she  was  motionless,  al- 
though she  was  silent,  her  well-known  accents  and 
her  memorable  gestures  seemed  to  live  about  her, 
vibrating  indefinitely,  like  melodies  round  the  chords 
that  repeat  them,  like  its  rhymes  round  the  closed 
book  where  love  and  pain  go  in  search  of  them, 
to  find  comfort  and  intoxication.  The  heroic  fidel- 
ity of  Antigone,  the  fury  of  Cassandra,  the  devour- 
ing fever  of  Phaedra,  the  fierceness  of  Medea, 
the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia;  Mirra  before  his  father, 
Polissena  and  Alcestes  before  the  face  of  death, 
Cleopatra,  changeable  like  the  wind  and  flame  of  the 
world ;  Lady  Macbeth,  that  dreaming  murderess  of 
the  little  hands  and  the  large  lilies  pearled  over  with 
dew  and  with  fears;  Imogen,  Juliet,  Miranda;  and 
Rosamund  and  Jessica  and  Perdita,  the  sweetest  souls 
and  the  most  terrible  and  the  most  magnificent,  — 
were  all  in  her,  living  in  her  body,  flashing  through  her 
pupils,  breathing  in  her  mouth  that  knew  of  honey 
and  of  poison,  of  the  gemmed  goblet  and  the  cup  of 
wormwood.  Thus,  with  an  unlimited  vastness  and 
through  endless  time,  the  outlines  of  human  age  and 
substance  seemed  to  widen  and  perpetuate  them- 
selves ;  and  for  no  other  reason  than  the  motion  of  a 
muscle,  a  sign,  a  gesture,  a  line  of  feature,  a  tremor 
of  the  eyelids,  a  slight  change  of  colour,  an  almost 
imperceptible  bend  of  the  brows,  a  changing  play  of 
light  and  shade,  a  lightning-like  virtue  of  expression 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     107 

radiating  from  that  thin,  frail  body,  infinite  worlds 
of  undying  beauty  were  continually  generated.  The 
very  genii  of  the  places  consecrated  by  poetry 
breathed  over  her  and  girded  her  round  with  alterna- 
ting visions:  the  dusty  plain  of  Thebe,  the  parched 
Argolide,  the  burnt  up  myrtles  of  Trezene,  the  sacred 
olives  of  Colonus,  the  triumphant  Cydnus,  the  pale 
landscape  of  Dunsinane,  Prospero's  cave,  the  wood  in 
the  Ardennes,  regions  furrowed  with  blood,  laboured 
by  pain,  transfigured  by  a  dream  or  lighted  by  an 
inextinguishable  smile,  appeared,  receded,  and  melted 
away  behind  her  head.  And  other  remote  regions : 
regions  of  mist,  northern  plains,  the  immense  con- 
tinents beyond  the  ocean  where  she  had  passed  like 
an  unknown  force,  carrying  her  voice  and  her  flame 
with  her,  melted  away  behind  her  head ;  with  the 
multitudes,  their  hills  and  rivers,  the  gulfs,  the  impure 
cities,  the  ancient  forsaken  races,  the  strong  peoples 
panting  for  the  dominion  of  the  world,  the  new 
peoples  that  wrest  from  nature  her  most  secret 
energies  to  make  them  the  slaves  of  omnipotent  labour 
in  edifices  of  iron  and  glass,  the  colonies  of  bastard 
races  that  ferment  and  grow  corrupt  on  virgin  soil, 
all  the  barbarous  crowds  to  which  she  had  appeared 
as  a  sovereign  revelation  of  Latin  genius,  all  the 
unconscious  masses  to  which  she  had  spoken  the 
sublime  language  of  Dante,  all  the  innumerable 
human  herds  whence  the  aspiration  to  beauty,  had 
risen  towards  her  on  a  wave  of  confused  hopes  and 
anxieties.  As  she  stood  there,  a  creature  made  of 
perishable  flesh  and  subject  to  the  sad  laws  of  time, 
an  immeasurable  mass  of  real  and  ideal  life  seemed 
to  weigh  upon  her  and  widen  round  her,  throbbing 


io8  THE   FLAME  OF  LIFE 

with  the  rhythm  of  her  breath.  It  was  not  on  the 
stage  only  that  she  had  cried  out  and  suffocated  her 
sobs,  but  she  had  loved,  fought,  and  suffered  vio- 
lently in  her  daily  life  for  herself,  for  her  own  soul, 
for  her  flesh  and  blood.  What  loves?  What  battles? 
What  spasms?  From  what  depths  of  melancholy 
had  she  drawn  the  sublimate  of  her  tragic  power? 
At  what  springs  of  bitterness  had  she  watered  her 
free  genius?  Certainly  she  had  witnessed  the  cruel- 
est  misery,  the  darkest  ruin ;  she  had  known  heroic  ef- 
forts, pity,  horror,  and  the  threshold  of  death.  All  her 
thirsts  had  kindled  again  in  the  delirium  of  Phaedra; 
and  in  the  submission  of  Imogen  all  her  tenderness 
had  trembled  anew.  Thus  Life  and  Art,  the  irrevo- 
cable past  and  the  eternally  present,  had  made  her 
profound,  many-souled  and  mysterious,  had  magnified 
her  ambiguous  fate  beyond  human  limits,  making  her 
equal  to  the  temples  and  the  forests. 

She  stood  on,  breathing  under  the  eyes  of  the  poets, 
who  saw  her  one  and  yet  different. 

"Ah,  I  will  possess  you  as  in  a  vast  orgy;  I  will 
shake  you  like  a  bundle  of  thyrsi ;  I  will  shake  from 
the  knowledge  of  your  body  all  the  divine  and 
monstrous  things  that  weigh  upon  you  ;  the  things 
you  have  accomplished,  and  those  still  in  travail  that 
are  growing  in  you  as  in  a  sacred  season,"  spoke  the 
lyric  demon  of  the  Life-giver,  recognising  in  the 
woman's  mystery  the  surviving  power  of  the  primitive 
myth,  the  renewed  initiation  of  the  deity  which  had 
fused  all  the  energies  of  nature  in  one  single  ferment, 
and  with  the  varying  of  its  rhythms  and  in  the  en- 
thusiastic worship  of  himself  had  raised  human  senses 
and  the  human  spirit  to  the  summit  of  joy  and  pain. 


THE  EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     109 

*'  It  will  be  good,  it  will  be  good,  to  have  waited  so 
long.  The  passing  of  years,  the  tumult  of  dreams, 
the  agonies  of  the  struggle  and  the  swiftness  of 
triumph,  the  impurity  of  many  loves,  the  enchant- 
ment of  poets,  the  applause  of  the  crowd,  the  wonders 
of  earth,  the  patience  and  the  fury,  the  footsteps  in 
the  mud,  the  blind  flights,  all  the  evil,  all  the  good, 
what  I  know  and  what  I  ignore,  what  you  know  and 
what  you  ignore,  —  all  this  had  to  be,  to  make  the  ful- 
ness of  my  night  that  is  coming." 

He  felt  himself  suffocate  and  turn  pale.  Desire 
seized  him  by  the  throat  with  a  wild  impulse,  to  leave 
him  no  more ;  and  his  heart  swelled  with  that  same 
anxiety  that  both  had  felt  in  the  evening  when  they 
had  glided  over  the  water  that  had  seemed  flowing 
in  a  frightful  clepsydra. 

As  the  exaggerated  vision  of  places  and  events 
vanished  suddenly,  the  nocturnal  creature  reappeared 
stilU  more  profoundly  knitted  to  the  city  of  the  vast 
necklaces  and  the  thousand  girdles  of  green.  In  the 
city  and  in  the  woman  he  now  saw  a  power  of  ex- 
pression that  he  had  never  seen  before.  The  one  and 
the  other  burned  in  the  Autumn  night,  and  the  same 
fever  that  ran  through  the  canals  was  running  through 
her  veins. 

The  stars  glittered,  the  trees  swayed  behind  Per- 
dita's  head,  a  garden  stretched  out  beyond  the 
windows  open  on  the  balconies.  Whiffs  from  the 
sky  stole  into  the  supper-room,  agitating  the  little 
flames  of  the  candelabra  and  the  chalices  of  the 
flowers ;  they  passed  through  the  doors,  giving 
the  curtains  a  light  throb,  animating  that  old  house 
of  the  Capello  where  the  last  great  daughter  of  San 


no  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Marco  whom  the  people  had  covered  with  glory  and 
with  gold  had  collected  her  relics  of  republican 
magnificence.  Galleon  lamps,  Turkish  targets,  quiv- 
ers of  leather,  bronze  helmets,  velvet  sheaths,  adorned 
the  rooms  of  the  last  descendant  of  that  marvellous 
Cesare  d'Arbes  who  had  kept  the  Art  of  Comedy 
alive  against  the  goldonian  reform,  and  changed  the 
agony  of  the  Serene  Republic  into  a  convulsion  of 
laughter. 

"  All  I  ask  is  to  serve  that  idea  humbly,"  la 
Foscarina  said  to  Antimo  della  Bella,  with  a  slight 
tremor  in  her  voice  because  she  had  met  Stelio's 
gaze. 

"  You  alone  can  make  it  triumph,"  said  Francesco 
de  Lizo.  "  The  soul  of  the  crowd  is  subject  to  you 
for  ever." 

"  The  drama,"  declared  Daniele  Glauro,  "  can  only 
be  a  rite  or  a  message.  The  performance  should  be 
once  more  solemn  as  a  ceremony,  including  as  it 
does  the  two  elements  that  make  up  all  worship,  —  the 
living  person  on  the  stage  in  whom,  as  before  the 
altar,  the  word  of  the  revealer  is  made  incarnate, 
and  the  presence  of  the  multitude  silent  as  in  its 
temples.  .  .  ." 

"  Bayreuth !  "  interrupted  Prince  Hoditz. 

"  No,  the  Janiculum !  "  cried  Stelio  Efifrena,  sud- 
denly emerging  from  his  dizzy  silence,  "  a  Roman  hill. 
Not  the  bricks  and  the  wood  of  Upper  Francony. 
We  will  have  a  marble  theatre  on  our  Roman  hill." 

The  sudden  opposition  of  his  words  seemed  to 
have  been  almost  brought  about  by  a  kind  of  joyful 
contempt. 

"  Do  you  not  admire  the  work  of  Richard  Wagner?" 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE  FLAME     iii 

asked  Donatella  Arvale,  with  a  slight  frown  that  for  an 
instant  made  her  Hermes-like  face  seem  almost  hard. 

He  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  feeling  all  that 
was  obscurely  hostile  in  the  girl's  manner  and  himself 
sharing  against  her  that  indistinct  enmity.  He  saw 
her  living  her  own  encircled  life  apart,  immovable 
in  some  deeply  secret  thought,  a  stranger  and 
inviolable. 

"  The  work  of  Richard  Wagner,"  he  answered,  "  is 
founded  on  the  German  spirit,  and  its  essence  is 
purely  northern.  His  reform  has  some  analogy  with 
that  which  Luther  attempted ;  his  drama  is  nothing 
if  not  the  supreme  flower  of  the  genius  of  a  race,  the 
extraordinarily  efficacious  summing  up  of  the  aspira- 
tions that  have  burdened  the  soul  of  the  symphonists 
and  of  the  national  poets  from  Bach  to  Beethoven, 
from  Wieland  to  Goethe.  If  you  could  imagine  his 
work  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  among  our 
light  olive-trees  and  our  slender  laurels,  under  the 
glory  of  the  Latin  sky,  you  would  see  it  grow  pale 
and  dissolve.  Since,  according  to  his  own  words,  it 
is  given  to  the  artist  to  see  a  still  unformed  world 
shining  in  its  future  perfection,  and  to  enjoy  it  pro- 
phetically in  desire  and  in  hope,  I  announce  the 
advent  of  a  new  or  renewed  art  that  by  the  powerful, 
sincere  simplicity  of  its  lines,  by  its  vigorous  grace, 
by  the  ardour  of  its  spirit,  by  the  pure  force  of  its 
harmonies,  shall  continue  and  crown  the  immense 
ideal  edifice  of  our  elect  race.  I  glory  myself  that  I 
am  a  Latin,  and  —  forgive  me,  dreaming  Lady  Myrta, 
forgive  me.  Prince  Hoditz,  —  I  see  a  barbarian  in 
every  man  of  different  blood. 

"But  he,  too,  Richard  Wagner,  started  from  the 


112  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

Greeks  in  developing  the  thread  of  his  theory,"  said 
Baldassare  Stampa,  who,  having  just  returned  from 
Bayreuth,  was  still  full  of  the  ecstasy. 

"  A  confused  and  unequal  thread,"  answered  the 
master.  "  Nothing  is  further  from  the  Orestiades 
than  the  tetralogy  of  the  Ring,  The  Florentines  of 
Casa  Bardi  have  perceived  the  essence  of  Greek 
tragedy  far  more  deeply.  All  homage  to  the  Cam- 
erata  del  Conte  di  Vernio." 

"  I  have  always  thought  that  the  Camerata  was  an 
idle  gathering  of  savants  and  rhetoricians,"  said 
Baldassare  Stampa. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Daniele?"  exclaimed  Stelio,  turn- 
ing to  the  mystic  doctor.  "  When  was  there  in  the 
world  a  more  fervid  fire  of  intelligence  ?  They  sought 
the  spirit  of  life  in  Greek  antiquity;  they  tried  to 
develop  all  human  energies  harmoniously,  to  manifest 
man  in  his  integrity  by  all  the  means  of  art.  Giulio 
Caccini  taught  that  not  only  things  in  particular,  but 
all  things  together  are  needful  to  the  excellence  of 
the  musician ;  the  tawny  hair  of  Jacopo  Peri  and  of 
Zazzerino  flamed  in  their  song  like  that  of  Apollo. 
In  the  discourse  that  precedes  his  Rappresentazione 
di  Aniina  et  di  Corpo,  Emilio  del  Cavaliere  gives  us 
the  same  ideas  on  the  foundation  of  the  new  theatre 
that  have  since  been  carried  out  at  Bayreuth,  even  to 
the  precept  of  perfect  silence,  of  propitious  darkness, 
of  an  invisible  orchestra.  Marco  da  Gagliano  in  cele- 
brating a  festive  performance  eulogises  all  the  arts 
that  contributed  to  it  '  in  such  a  manner  that  every 
most  noble  feeling  is  flattered  through  the  intellect  at 
one  same  time  by  the  most  pleasure-giving  arts  that 
human  talent  has  discovered.'     Is  not  that  enough  ?  " 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     113 

"  Bernino,"  said  Francesco  de  Lizo,  "  gave  an 
opera  in  Rome  for  which  he  himself  had  constructed 
the  theatre,  painted  the  scenery,  carved  the  orna- 
mental statues,  invented  the  machinery,  written  the 
words,  composed  the  music,  regulated  the  dancing, 
instructed  the  actors,  in  which  he  himself  danced, 
sang,  and  recited." 

"  Enough,  enough  !  "  cried  Prince  Hoditz,  laughing; 
"  the  barbarian  is  conquered." 

"  And  it  is  still  not  enough,"  said  Antimo  della 
Bella ;  "  we  should  glorify  the  greatest  of  these  inno- 
vators, he  who  is  anointed  a  Venetian  by  his  passion 
and  death,  whose  sepulchre  in  the  Church  of  the 
Frari  is  worthy  of  a  pilgrimage,  —  the  divine  Claudio 
Monteverde." 

"  His  was  an  heroic  soul  of  pure  Italian  essence," 
Daniele  Glauro  confirmed  reverently. 

**  He  accomplished  his  work  in  the  storm,  loving, 
suffering,  struggling,  alone  with  his  fate,  his  passion, 
and  his  genius,"  la  Foscarina  said  slowly,  as  if 
absorbed  in  the  vision  of  the  brave  life  full  of  pain 
that  had  fed  the  creatures  of  its  art  with  its  warmest 
blood.     "  Tell  us  about  him,  Effrena." 

Stelio  quivered  as  if  she  had  suddenly  touched 
him.  Again  the  expressive  power  of  her  diffusing 
voice  called  up  an  ideal  figure,  that  rose  from  some 
indefinite  depths  as  from  a  tomb,  assuming  before 
the  eyes  of  the  poets  the  colour  and  the  breath  of  life. 
The  old  viola-player,  bereaved  and  ardent  and  sad 
like  the  Orpheus  of  his  own  fable,  appeared  in  the 
supper-room. 

It  was  a  fiery  apparition,  prouder  and  more  daz- 
zling by  far  than  that  which  had  lit  up  the  harbour  of 


114  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

San  Marco ;  an  inflamed  force  of  life,  expelled 
from  the  inner  bosom  of  nature  towards  the  expec- 
tancy of  the  multitudes ;  a  vehement  zone  of  light 
breaking  out  from  an  interior  sky  to  illumine  the 
more  secret  depths  of  human  will  and  desire,  an  un- 
known Word  springing  from  primitive  silences  to  say 
that  which  is  eternal  and  eternally  inexpressible  in 
the  heart  of  the  world. 

"  Should  we  speak  of  him,  if  he  himself  could 
speak  to  us?  "  said  the  Life-giver,  troubled,  unable  to 
contain  the  growing  fulness  that  surged  within  him 
like  an  anguished  sea.  And  he  gazed  at  the  singer; 
and  he  saw  her  as  when  she  had  first  appeared  to 
him  in  the  pauses,  among  the  forest  of  instruments 
white  and  lifeless  as  a  shadow. 

But  the  spirit  of  beauty  which  they  had  invoked 
was  to  manifest  itself  through  her. 

"  Ariadne,"  Stelio  added  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to 
awaken  her. 

She  rose  without  speaking,  went  to  the  door, 
entered  the  neighbouring  room.  They  heard  the 
rustle  of  her  skirts,  her  light  footfall,  and  the  sound 
of  the  instrument  being  opened.  All  were  quiet  and 
intent.  A  musical  silence  seemed  to  occupy  the 
place  that  had  remained  empty  in  the  supper-room. 
Once  only  a  breath  of  wind  slanted  the  candle  flames, 
disturbing  the  flowers.  Then  all  became  anxious 
again,  and  motionless  in  expectation. 

**  Lasciatemi  morire  I  **  * 

Suddenly  their  souls  were  ravished  by  a  power 
that  seemed  the  lightning-like  eagle  by  which  Dante 
1  "  O  let  me  die  I " 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME     115 

in  his  dream  was  ravished  up  to  the  flame.  They 
were  burning  together  in  undying  truth  ;  they  heard 
the  world's  melody  pass  through  their  luminous 
ecstasy. 

"  Lasciatemi  morire ! " 

Was  it  Ariadne,  still  Ariadne,  who  was  weeping  in 
some  new  pain?  rising,  still  rising,  to  new  height  in 
her  martyrdom? 

"  E  che  volete 
Che  mi  conforte 
In  cosi  dura  sorte, 
In  cosi  gran  martire  ? 
Lasciatemi  morire  I  "  * 

The  voice  ceased  ;  the  singer  did  not  reappear. 
The  aria  of  Claudio  Monteverde  composed  itself  in 
the  memory  like  a  changeless  feature. 

"  Is  there  any  Greek  marble  that  has  reached  a 
simpler  and  securer  perfection  of  style?  "  said  Daniele 
Glauro,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he  feared  to  disturb  the 
silence  which  was  still  ringing  with  the  music. 

"  But  what  sorrow  on  earth  has  ever  wept  like 
this?"  stammered  Lady  Myrta,  her  eyes  full  of  tears 
that  ran  down  the  furrows  of  her  poor  bloodless  face, 
while  her  hands,  deformed  by  gout,  trembled  as  they 
wiped  them  away. 

The  austere  intellect  of  the  aesthete  and  that  of 
the  sweet  sensitive  soul  in  the  old  infirm  body 
gave  witness  to  the  same  power.  In  the  same  way, 
nearly  three  centuries  before  in  Mantua,  six  thousand 
spectators  had  been  unable  to  control  their  tears,  and 

1  "  And  what  can  comfort  me 
In  my  hard  fate, 
In  my  great  martyrdom  ? 
O  let  me  die  I " 


Ii6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

poets  had  believed  in  the  living  presence  of  Apollo 
on  the  new  stage  of  the  famous  theatre. 

"  Here,  Baldassare  is  an  artist  of  our  own  race,*' 
said  Stelio  Effrena,  "  who,  by  the  simplest  means, 
has  succeeded  in  touching  the  highest  degree  of  that 
beauty  which  the  German  rarely  approached  in  his 
confused  aspirations  towards  the  fatherland  of 
Sophocles." 

"  Do  you  know  the  lamentation  of  the  ailing 
King?"  asked  the  young  man  with  the  long  sunny 
hair  worn  by  him  as  an  heirloom  of  the  Venetian 
Sappho,  of  the  "  high  Gasparra,"  the  unfortunate 
friend  of  Collatino. 

"  All  the  anguish  of  Amfortas  is  in  a  mottetto  I 
know:  *  Peccantem  me  quotidie;'  but  with  what 
lyric  impulse,  what  powerful  simplicity!  All  the 
forces  of  tragedy  are  there,  I  should  almost  say  sub- 
limated like  the  instincts  of  a  multitude  in  the  heart 
of  a  hero.  Palestrina's  much  older  expression  seems 
to  me  also  purer  and  more  virile. 

"  But  the  struggle  of  Kundry  and  of  Parsifal  in  the 
second  act,  the  Herzeleide  motive,  the  impetuous 
figure,  the  figure  of  pain  drawn  from  the  motto  of 
the  sacred  banquet,  the  motive  of  Kundry's  aspira- 
tion, the  prophetic  theme  of  the  promise,  the  mad 
kiss  on  the  mouth  of  the  youth,  all  that  heartrending 
and  intoxicating  contrast  of  desire  and  horror.  .  .  . 
'The  wound,  the  wound  !  Now  it  is  burning,  it  is  bleed- 
ing in  me !  *  And  above  the  despairing  restlessness 
of  the  tempter,  the  melody  of  submission.  .  .  .  '  Let 
me  weep  on  your  bosom,  let  me  be  united  to  thee 
for  an  hour,  and  even  if  God  repel  me  I  shall  be  re- 
deemed and  saved  by  thee  !  '     And  Parsifal's  answer 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     117 

in  which  the  motive  of  the  madman  now  transfigured 
into  the  promised  hero  returns  with  so  grand  a  so- 
lemnity: 'Hell  is  before  us  for  all  eternity,  if  only 
for  one  hour  I  let  thee  fold  me  in  thy  arms.'  And 
the  wild  ecstasy  of  Kundry.  .  .  .  *  As  my  kiss  has 
made  thee  a  prophet,  the  entire  caress  of  my  love 
shall  make  thee  divine.  One  hour,  one  hour  only 
with  thee,  and  I  shall  be  saved ! '  And  the  last  ef- 
forts of  her  demoniac  will,  the  supreme  gesture  of 
inducement,  the  prayer  and  the  furious  offer.  .  .  . 
'  Only  thy  love  can  save  me !  Let  me  love  thee ! 
Mine  for  one  only  hour  !    Thine  for  one  only  hour.'  " 

Madly  Perdita  and  Stelio  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes.  For  a  second  they  rushed  into  each  other, 
were  united,  knew  joy,  and  gasped  as  on  a  bed  of 
pleasure  and  death. 

The  Marangona,  the  largest  bell  of  San  Marco, 
rang  out  in  the  night,  and  as  once  before  in  the 
evening  hour,  they  seemed  to  feel  the  roll  of  the 
bronze  in  the  roots  of  their  hair  almost  like  a  quiver 
of  their  own  flesh.  They  again  felt,  passing  over 
their  heads,  the  vortex  of  sound  in  which  the  appari- 
tions of  the  consoling  beauty  invoked  by  unanimous 
Prayer  had  suddenly  arisen.  The  phantoms  on  the 
water,  the  infinite  waverings  of  dissimulated  desire, 
the  anxiety,  the  promise,  the  farewell,  the  festival, 
the  monster  with  the  innumerable  human  faces,  and 
the  great  starry  sphere,  and  the  applause  and  the 
symphony  and  the  song,  and  the  miracles  of  Fire,  and 
the  passage  along  the  sonorous  canal,  the  song  of 
brief  youth,  the  struggle  and  mute  anguish  in  the 
boat,  the  sudden  shadow  on  their  three  destinies,  the 
banquet   illumined    by  the   beautiful    idea,   the   an- 


ii8  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

nouncement,  the  hope,  the  pride, —  all  the  pulsations 
of  strong  life  met  and  renewed  themselves  within 
them,  quickened,  became  a  thousand,  and  became 
one.  And  it  seemed  to  them  that  they  had  lived 
beyond  human  limits  in  that  instant,  that  an  un- 
known immensity  was  spreading  before  them  which 
they  could  absorb  as  the  ocean  absorbs,  because 
having  lived  so  much,  they  yet  were  empty,  having 
drunk  so  much,  they  yet  were  parched.  A  violent 
illusion  mastered  their  souls  full  of  riches.  The  one 
seemed  to  grow  immeasurably  in  the  other's  wealth. 
The  maiden  had  disappeared.  The  eyes  of  the  wan- 
dering, despairing  woman  were  repeating:  "  The  full 
caress  of  my  love  shall  make  thee  divine.  One  hour, 
one  only  hour  with  thee,  and  I  shall  be  saved  !  Mine, 
even  if  for  one  only  hour !  Thine,  even  if  for  one 
only  hour!  " 

And  the  eloquence  of  the  enthusiast  continued 
building  up  the  sacred  tragedy.  Kundry,  the  furious 
tempter,  the  slave  of  desire,  the  rose  of  hell,  the 
original  perdition,  the  cursed  one,  now  reappeared 
in  the  spring  dawn,  reappeared  humble  and  pale  in 
the  garb  of  the  messenger,  her  head  bent,  her  gaze 
dim,  her  hoarse,  broken  voice  knowing  one  word 
only:    "  Let  me  serve ;    let  me  serve  !  " 

The  melodies  of  solitude,  of  submission,  of  purifi- 
cation, prepared  round  her  lowliness  the  enchantment 
of  Good  Friday.  And  Parsifal  reappeared  in  his 
black  armour,  with  closed  helmet,  with  lowered  spear, 
absorbed  in  an  infinite  dream ;  "  I  have  come  by 
perilous  roads,  but  perhaps  this  day  shall  see  me 
saved  because  I  hear  the  murmur  of  the  holy  forest." 
Hope,  pain,  remorse,  remembrance,  promise,   faith 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     119 

panting  for  salvation,  sacred,  mysterious  melodies 
seemed  to  weave  the  ideal  mantle  that  was  to  cover 
the  Simple,  the  Pure  one,  the  Promised  Hero  sent 
to  heal  the  incurable  wound.  "  Will  you  lead  me 
to  Amfortas  to-day?"  He  grew  languid,  fainting 
•in  the  arms  of  the  old  man.  "  Let  me  serve;  let  me 
serve  1 "  The  melody  of  submission  spread  through 
the  orchestra  again,  destroying  the  original  impetu- 
ous figure.  "  Let  me  serve !  "  The  faithful  woman 
was  bringing  water,  was  kneeling  in  her  lowliness, 
fervently  washing  the  beloved  feet.  "  Let  me  serve  !  " 
The  faithful  woman  drew  from  her  bosom  a  vase  of 
ointment  to  anoint  the  beloved  feet,  and  then  wiped 
them  with  her  loosened  hair.  The  Pure  One  bent 
over  the  sinner,  pouring  water  on  her  wild  head: 
"  Thus  I  accomplish  my  first  office ;  receive  this 
baptism  and  believe  in  the  Redeemer."  The  brow 
of  Kundry  lay  low  in  the  dust  as  she  burst  out  weep- 
ing, freed  from  desire,  freed  from  the  curse.  And 
then,  from  the  profound  final  harmonies  of  the  prayer 
to  the  Redeemer,  the  melody  of  the  flowery  meadow 
spread  and  rose  with  superhuman  sweetness.  "  How 
beautiful  the  meadow  is  to-day !  marvellous  flowers 
once  drew  me  to  them,  but  the  grass  and  the 
flowers  were  never  before  so  fragrant."  Parsifal  in 
his  ecstasy  gazes  at  the  meadow  and  the  dewy 
forest,  smiling  in  the  morning  light. 

"  Ah,  who  shall  forget  the  sublime  moment,"  ex- 
claimed the  fascinated  man,  his  thin  face  flashing 
again  with  the  lightning-stroke  of  joy.  *'  All,  in  the 
darkness  of  the  theatre,  were  fixed  in  perfect  stillness 
like  one  single  compact  mass.  In  each  of  our  veins 
our   blood    had   stopped,   seeming   to    listen.      The 


120  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

music  rose  like  light  from  the  Mystic  Gulf;  the 
notes  seemed  to  transform  themselves  into  rays  of 
spring  sunshine,  coming  to  life  with  the  same  joy 
as  the  blade  of  grass  that  breaks  through  the  earth, 
as  the  flower  that  opens,  as  the  branch  that  buds,  as 
the  insect  bringing  forth  its  wings.  And  all  the 
innocence  of  things  just  born  entered  into  us,  and 
our  souls  lived  again  I  know  not  what  dream  of  far 
away  infancy.  .  .  .  Infantia,  the  device  of  Vettor 
Carpaccio.  Ah,  Stelio,  how  well  you  repeated  it  to 
our  old  age  a  little  while  ago,  and  how  well  you 
have  found  the  way  of  making  us  feel  our  sorrow 
for  what  we  have  lost,  and  our  hope  of  recovering 
it  by  means  of  an  art  that  shall  be  indissolubly  re- 
united to  life !  " 

Stelio  Efifrena  was  silent,  oppressed  by  the  weight 
of  the  gigantic  work  of  the  barbaric  creator  whom 
the  enthusiasm  of  Baldassare  Stampa  had  called  up 
and  placed  against  the  burning  figure  of  the  trage- 
dian of  Ariadne  and  Orpheus.  A  kind  of  instinctive 
rancour,  of  obscure  hostility  which  was  not  of  the 
intellect,  raised  him  up  against  the  tenacious  German 
who  had  succeeded  in  inflaming  the  world.  To 
obtain  his  victory  over  men  and  things,  he  too  had 
exalted  his  own  image  and  magnified  his  own  dream 
of  dominating  beauty;  he  too  had  been  drawn  to 
the  crowd  as  to  the  preferable  prey,  he  too  had 
made  his  discipline  of  the  effort  to  surpass  himself 
without  respite.  And  now  he  had  his  temple  on  the 
Bavarian  hills. 

"  Art  alone  can  bring  men  back  to  unity,"  said 
Daniele  Glauro.  "  Let  us  honour  the  great  master 
who  has  always  had  this  for  his  faith.     His  theatre, 


THE    EPIPHANY   OF   THE    FLAME      121 

although  of  bricks  and  wood,  although  small  and  im- 
perfect, has  a  sublime  significance.  In  it  the  work  of 
art  is  religion  brought  under  the  senses  in  a  living 
form  ;  the  drama  there  becomes  a  rite." 

"  Let  us  honour  Richard  Wagner,"  said  Antimo 
della  Bella ;  "  but  if  this  hour  is  to  be  memorable  as 
the  hour  of  an  announcement,  and  a  promise  from 
him  who  a  little  while  ago  was  pointing  the  mysteri- 
ous vessel  out  to  the  crowd,  let  us  again  invoke  as 
our  patron  the  heroic  soul  which  has  spoken  to  us 
through  the  voice  of  Donatella  Arvale.  In  laying  the 
foundation  stone  of  his  theatre,  the  poet  of  Siegfried 
consecrated  it  to  the  hopes  and  the  victories  of  his 
German  people.  The  theatre  of  Apollo  which  is 
rapidly  rising  on  the  Janiculum,  where  once  the  eagles 
descended  with  their  prophecies,  must  be  no  other 
than  the  monumental  revelation  of  the  idea  towards 
which  our  race  is  led  by  its  genius.  Let  us  reinforce 
the  privilege  by  which  nature  has  made  our  blood  so 
great." 

Stelio  Effrena  was  silent,  overwhelmed  by  vor- 
tex-like forces  that  laboured  in  him  with  a  kind  of 
blind  fury  similar  to  the  subterranean  forces  that 
swell,  break  up,  and  transfigure  a  volcanic  territory, 
creating  in  it  new  mountains  and  new  abysses.  The 
elements  of  his  inner  life,  carried  away  by  that  shock, 
seemed  at  the  same  time  to  dissolve  and  to  multiply 
themselves.  Grand,  terrible  images  passed  over  the 
tumult  in  musical  storm-clouds.  Rapid  concen- 
trations and  dispersions  of  thought  succeeded  each 
other  like  electric  discharges  in  a  hurricane.  At  in- 
tervals, he  seemed  to  hear  shouts  and  songs,  as  if 
a  door  continually  reclosed   were   being   continually 


122  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

thrown  open;  as  if  blasts  of  wind  were  bringing  him 
the  distant  cries  of  a  massacre,  alternating  with 
an  apotheosis.  Suddenly,  with  the  intensity  of  a 
feverish  vision,  he  saw  the  dry,  fated  land,  in  which 
he  was  going  to  place  the  souls  of  his  tragedy ;  he 
felt  all  its  thirst  in  himself.  He  saw  the  mythic  fount 
that  alone  broke  in  upon  its  dryness,  and  on  the 
throb  of  its  springs  the  whiteness  of  the  virgin  who 
was  to  die  there.  He  saw  the  heroine's  mask  on 
Perdita's  face,  in  all  the  beauty  of  an  extraordinarily 
calm  sorrow.  The  ancient  dryness  of  the  plain 
of  Argos  then  seemed  to  convert  itself  into  flames, 
the  fount  of  Perseia  flowed  hke  a  river.  The  two 
primordial  elements,  fire  and  water,  passed  over 
all  things,  cancelled  every  sign,  diffused  themselves, 
wandered,  struggled,  triumphed,  spoke,  found  words 
and  a  language  with  which  to  reveal  their  inner  es- 
sence, to  tell  the  innumerable  myths  born  of  their 
eternity.  The  symphony  expressed  the  drama  of  the 
two  elemental  Souls  on  the  stage  of  the  Universe,  the 
pathetic  struggle  of  the  two  great  living  and  mobile 
Beings,  of  the  two  forces  of  cosmic  Will,  such  as  the 
shepherd  Arya  on  his  plateaus  imagined  it,  when  his 
pure  eyes  first  saw  the  spectacle.  Then  from  the  very 
centre  of  the  musical  mystery,  from  the  inner  depth 
of  the  symphonic  ocean,  the  Ode  arose,  brought  by 
the  human  voice,  and  soared  to  its  greatest  height. 
The  miracle  of  Beethoven  renewed  itself.  The  winged 
Ode,  the  Hymn,  burst  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
orchestra  to  tell,  in  an  imperious  and  absolute  man- 
ner, the  joy  and  the  sorrow  of  Man.  Not  the  chorus, 
as  in  the  Ninth  Symphony,  but  the  solitary,  domi- 
nating voice  that  was  the  interpreter,  the  messenger 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     123 

to  the  multitude.  "  Her  voice  !  her  voice !  She  has 
disappeared.  Her  voice  seemed  to  touch  the  very 
heart  of  the  world,  and  she  was  beyond  the  veil," 
said  the  Life-giver,  having  once  more  before  his  eyes 
the  crystal  statue  in  which  he  had  seen  the  ascending 
veins  of  melody.  "I  will  seek  you,  I  will  find  you 
again,  I  will  master  your  secret.  You  shall  sing  my 
hymns,  raised  up  on  the  summit  of  my  music."  Freed 
from  impure  desire,  he  now  considered  the  virgin's 
form  as  the  receptacle,  as  the  custodian  of  a  divine 
gift.  He  heard  the  disembodied  voice  rise  from  the 
depths  of  the  orchestra  to  reveal  the  part  of  eternal 
truth  hidden  in  the  passing  fact,  in  the  fleeting  event. 
The  Ode  was  crowning  the  episode  with  light.  Then, 
as  if  to  lead  back  to  the  play  of  images  his  spirit, 
which  had  been  rapt  "  beyond  the  veil,"  a  dance 
figure  designed  itself  on  the  rhythm  of  the  dying  Ode. 
The  silent  dancer  appeared  within  a  parallelogram 
traced  in  the  arch  of  the  stage,  as  within  the  limits  of 
a  strophe ;  her  body,  redeemed  for  a  while  from  the 
sad  laws  of  gravity,  imitating  fire  and  water  and  the 
whirlpool  and  the  evolution  of  stars.  "  La  Tanagra," 
the  flower  of  Syracuse,  made  of  wings,  as  a  flower  is 
made  of  petals !  Thus  he  conjured  up  the  image  of 
the  already  famous  Sicilian  who  had  rediscovered  the 
ancient  art  as  it  was  in  the  times  when  Frinico  could 
boast  of  having  as  many  dance  figures  in  himself  as 
a  stormy  winter's  night  raises  up  waves  upon  the  sea. 
The  actress,  the  singer,  and  the  dancer,  the  three 
Dionysian  women,  appeared  to  him  as  three  per- 
fect, almost  divine  instruments  of  his  creations.  By 
means  of  words,  gesture,  and  symphony,  and  with 
incredible  rapidity,  his  work  would  complete  itself 


124  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

and  live  its  powerful  life  before  the  conquered 
multitude. 

He  was  silent,  rapt  in  an  ideal  world,  intent  on 
measuring  the  effort  necessary  to  manifest  it. 

"  Richard  Wagner  affirms  that  the  only  creator  of  a 
work  of  art  is  the  people,"  Baldassare  Stampa  was 
saying,  "  and  that  all  the  artist  can  do  is  to  gather 
up  and  express  the  creation  of  the  unconscious 
throng.  .  .  ." 

The  extraordinary  feeling  that  had  surprised  him 
while  he  had  been  speaking  to  the  crowd  from  the  throne 
of  the  Doges  returned  and  occupied  him.  During  that 
time  of  communion  between  his  own  soul  and  the  soul 
of  the  crowd  an  almost  divine  mystery  had  taken  place ; 
something  greater  and  stronger  had  added  itself  to 
the  feeling  he  habitually  entertained  about  his  own 
person,  an  unknown  power  had  seemed  to  converge 
within  him,  abolishing  the  limits  of  his  particular  per- 
sonality and  conferring  the  harmony  of  a  chorus  to 
his  solitary  voice.  There  must,  therefore,  be  in  the 
multitude  some  hidden  beauty  from  which  only  the 
hero  and  the  poet  can  draw  a  flash.  Whenever 
that  beauty  revealed  itself  by  a  sudden  clamour 
arising  in  theatre  or  entrenchment  or  public  place,  a 
torrent  of  joy  must  swell  the  heart  of  him  who  had 
called  it  forth  with  his  verse,  his  harangue,  or  the 
action  of  his  sword.  The  word  of  the  poet,  when 
communicated  to  the  crowd,  must,  therefore,  be  an 
act  like  the  deed  of  a  hero,  —  an  act  creating  instan- 
taneous beauty  in  the  numberless  obscurities  of  the 
soul,  in  the  same  way  as  a  wonderful  sculptor,  from 
a  mass  of  clay  and  by  the  mere  touch  of  his  plastic 
thumb  brings  forth  a  divine  statue.     The  silence  that 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME     125 

had  been  spread  like  a  sacred  veil  on  the  completed 
poem  would  then  cease.  The  substance  of  life  would 
no  longer  be  signified  by  immaterial  symbols,  but  life 
itself  would  be  manifested  in  its  entirety  through  the 
medium  of  the  poet,  the  Word  made  flesh,  the  rhythm 
quickened  in  a  breathing,  living  form ;  the  idea  would 
spring  forth  in  the  fulness  of  its  strength  and  freedom. 

"  But  Richard  Wagner,"  said  Fabio  Molza,  "  be- 
lieves that  the  crowd  consists  of  all  those  who  feel' 
some   mutual   infirmity.      Do    you   hear,   a   mutual 
infirmity?  .  .  ." 

"Towards  Joy,  towards  eternal  Joy!"  thought 
Stelio  Effrena.  "  The  people  are  all  those  who  feel 
an  obscure  necessity  of  raising  themselves  by  means 
of  Fiction  out  of  the  daily  prison  in  which  they  serve 
and  suffer."  The  small  city  theatres  disappeared 
before  him,  those  theatres  where  in  the  midst  of  a 
suffocating  heat  that  is  saturated  with  every  impurity, 
before  a  band  of  debauchees  and  harlots,  the  actors 
take  on  themselves  the  office  of  prostitutes.  On  the 
steps  of  the  new  theatre  he  saw  the  true  crowd,  the 
immense,  unanimous  crowd  that  he  had  smelt  and 
heard  a  moment  ago  among  the  marbles  under  the 
stars.  His  art,  though  imperfectly  understood,  would 
bring  to  those  rough  unconscious  souls,  by  the 
mysterious  power  of  rhythm,  an  emotion  deep  as  that 
felt  by  the  prisoner  on  the  point  of  being  freed  from 
his  chains.  The  joy  of  their  liberation  spread  little 
by  little  over  the  most  abject,  the  furrowed  brows 
cleared  and  lips  opened  in  wonder  that  were  accus- 
tomed to  violent  outcry ;  lastly  the  hands  —  the  rough 
hands  enslaved  by  instruments  of  toil —  stretched  out 
in  one   unanimous  movement  towards   the   heroine 


126  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

who  was  exhaling  her  immortal  sorrow  under  the 
stars. 

"  In  the  life  of  a  people  like  ourselves,"  said  Daniele 
Glauro,  "great  manifestations  of  art  weigh  much 
more  than  a  treaty  of  alliance  or  a  tributary  law. 
That  which  is  undying  is  worth  more  than  that  which 
passes  away.  The  daring  and  the  cunning  of  a 
Malatesta  are  preserved  for  all  Eternity  in  a  medal  of 
Pisanello's.  Of  all  Machiavelli's  politics  nothing 
would  survive  if  it  were  not  for  the  sinews  of  his 
prose.  .  .  ." 

"  True,  true,"  thought  Stelio  Effrena ;  **  the  fortunes 
of  Italy  are  inseparable  from  the  fate  of  Beauty,  of 
whom  she  is  the  mother."  And  that  sovereign  truth 
now  seemed  to  him  the  approaching  sun  of  the  divine, 
far-away  ideal  fatherland  through  which  Dante 
wandered.  "  Italy !  Italy  !  "  The  name  that  has  in- 
toxicated the  world  sounded  over  his  soul  like  a 
rallying  cry.  Should  not  a  new  art,  robust  in  both 
roots  and  branches,  rise  from  ruins  steeped  in  so 
much  heroic  blood,  and  should  not  this  art  sum  up 
within  itself  all  the  forces  latent  in  the  hereditary 
substance  of  the  nation?  Should  it  not  become  a 
constructive  and  determining  power  in  the  third 
Rome,  pointing  out  to  the  men  who  were  taking  part 
in  its  government  the  primitive  truths  to  be  made 
the  basis  of  new  forms?  Faithful  to  the  oldest  in- 
stincts of  his  race,  Richard  Wagner  had  foreseen  and 
forwarded  by  his  effort  the  aspiration  of  the  German 
States  toward  the  heroic  greatness  of  empire.  He 
had  presented  them  with  the  magnificent  figure  of 
Henry  the  Fowler  rising  up  and  standing  under  the 
ancient   tree.  ..."  Let  the  warriors  rise  up  from 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     127 

every  German  land  I  "  At  Sadowa  and  at  Sedan  the 
warriors  had  won.  With  one  same  impulse,  with  the 
same  doggedness,  the  people  and  the  artist  had  accom- 
plished their  aim  of  glory.  One  same  victory  had 
crowned  the  work  of  the  sword  and  the  work  of  the 
lyre.  The  poet  as  much  as  the  hero  had  accomplished 
an  enfranchising  act.  His  musical  figures  had  con- 
tributed as  much  as  the  will  of  the  Chancellor,  as 
much  as  the  blood  of  the  soldiers,  to  the  work  of 
exalting  and  perpetuating  the  soul  of  his  race. 

"  He  has  been  here  a  few  days ;  he  is  staying  at  the 
Palazzo  Vendramin-Calergi,"  said  Prince  Hoditz. 

Suddenly  the  image  of  the  barbaric  creator 
approached  him,  the  lines  of  the  face  became  visible, 
the  sky-blue  eyes  shone  under  the  vast  forehead,  the 
lips  closed  tightly  above  the  powerful  chin  that  was 
armed  with  sensuality  and  pride  and  disdain.  The 
small  body  bent  with  old  age  and  glory  drew  itself 
up,  growing  gigantic  like  its  work,  the  appearance 
of  a  god  coming  over  it.  Its  blood  coursed  like 
the  streams  on  a  mountain-side;  its  breath  heaved  like 
the  wind  in  a  forest.  All  of  a  sudden  the  youth  of 
Siegfried  filled  it,  was  like  the  dawn  shining  through 
a  cloud.  "  To  follow  the  impulse  of  my  own  heart, 
to  obey  my  own  instinct,  to  listen  to  the  voice  of 
nature  speaking  within  me.  Let  this  be  my  supreme 
■  and  only  law."  The  heroic  words  rising  from  the 
deep  vibrated  in  it,  giving  expression  to  the  young 
healthy  will  that  had  overcome  every  obstacle  and 
every  evil  enchantment,  that  had  always  felt  itself  in 
harmony  with  the  law  of  the  Universe.  And  at  this, 
the  flames  brought  forth  from  the  rock  at  the  stroke 
of  Wotan's  staff  rose  up  in  a  circle. 


128  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

"  A  way  has  been  opened  through  the  sea  of  flames. 
Great  is  the  joy  of  being  steeped  in  that  fire.  Oh 
that  in  that  fire  I  might  find  my  bride !  "  All  the 
phantoms  of  the  myth  seemed  to  flash  and  then 
become  dark  again.  The  winged  helmet  of  Brune- 
hilde  glittered  in  the  sun.  "  Glory  to  the  sun,  glory 
to  the  light,  glory  to  the  radiant  day  !  My  sleep  was 
long;  who  has  awakened  me  ?"  The  phantoms 
became  tumultuous  and  dispersed.  Suddenly  Dona- 
tella Arvale,  the  Song-maiden,  reappeared  on  a 
background  of  shadow,  such  as  he  had  first  seen  her 
in  the  crimson  and  gold  of  the  Great  Hall  holding  the 
fruit  of  the  flame  in  an  attitude  of  dominion.  "  Do 
you  not  see  me,  then?  My  consuming  eyes  and  my 
flaming  blood,  do  they  give  you  no  fear?  Do  you  too 
feel  this  wild  ardour?"  Her  power  over  his  dream 
seemed  to  return  with  her  absence.  Infinite  music 
welled  up  from  the  silence  that  filled  her  empty  place 
in  the  supper-room.  Her  Hermes-like  face  seemed 
to  withhold  an  inviolable  secret.  "  Do  not  touch  me, 
do  not  disturb  me,  and  I  will  reflect  your  luminous 
image  for  ever.  Love  yourself  and  give  me  up." 
Once  more,  as  on  the  feverish  water,  a  kind  of 
passionate  impatience  dogged  the  Life-giver,  and 
again  he  saw  in  the  absent  one  the  faculty  of  being 
drawn  like  a  beautiful  bow  by  a  strong  hand  that 
should  know  how  to  use  it  as  a  weapon  for  some 
great  conquest.  "Awake,  virgin,  awake!  Laugh 
and  live  !     Be  mine  !  " 

Violently  his  spirit  was  being  drawn  into  the  circle 
of  the  imaginary  world  created  by  the  German  god ; 
its  visions  and  harmonies  overcame  him,  the  fig- 
ures of  the  northern  myth  built  themselves  up  over 


THE  EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     129 

the  figures  of  his  own  art  and  his  own  passion  ob- 
scuring them.  His  own  desire  and  his  own  hope 
were  speaking  the  language  of  the  barbarian.  "  It 
is  necessary  that  smiling  I  should  love  you,  and 
smiling  I  should  blind  myself.  It  is  necessary  that 
still  smiling  we  should  unite  ourselves  and  lose 
ourselves  in  that  union.  O  radiant  Love !  O  pro- 
pitious Death !  "  The  exaltation  of  the  warrior 
maiden  standing  on  the  flame-encircled  rock  touched 
its  steepest  height;  her  cry  of  freedom  and  pleasure 
rose  to  the  heart  of  the  sun.  Ah,  what  had  that 
formidable  stirrer  of  human  souls  not  expressed? 
what  apex  and  what  abyss  had  he  not  reached?  what 
effort  could  ever  equal  his  effort?  what  eagle  could 
ever  hope  to  soar  higher?  His  gigantic  work  stood 
complete  in  the  midst  of  men,  the  last  chorus  of  the 
Grail,  the  thanksgiving  hymn  echoed  through  the  earth. 
"  Glory  to  the  miracle,  redemption  to  the  Redeemer  !  " 

"  He  is  tired,"  said  Prince  Hoditz,  "  very  tired 
and  worn  out.  This  is  why  we  did  not  see  him  at 
the  Ducal  Palace.     His  heart  is  ailing  ..." 

The  giant  became  human  again,  turned  into  a 
small  body  bent  with  age  and  glory,  worn  with  pas- 
sion, dying.  And  it  seemed  to  Stelio  Effrena  that 
he  was  once  more  hearing  those  words,  uttered  by 
Perdita,  which  had  made  a  coffin  of  their  gondola : 
the  words  alluding  to  another  great  and  stricken 
artist,  the  father  of  Donatella  Arvale.  "  The  name 
of  the  bow  is  Bios,  and  its  work  is  Death."  The 
young  man  saw  his  way  stretching  before  him, 
traced  out  by  victory,  the  long  art,  the  short  life. 
"  Forward  !  Forward  !  Higher  and  still  higher !  " 
At  every  hour,  at  every  second,  he  would  have  to 


I30  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

feel,  fight,  and  strengthen  himself  against  destruc- 
tion, diminution,  violation,  and  contagion.  At  every 
hour,  at  every  second,  he  would  have  to  keep  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  aim,  bringing  all  his  energies  to 
converge  towards  it  without  truce  and  without  res- 
pite. He  felt  that  victory  was  as  necessary  to  him 
as  air.  A  furious  desire  of  battle  was  awaking 
in  his  agile  Latin  blood  at  that  contact  with  the 
barbarian.  "  To  you  I  now  leave  the  task  of  willing," 
the  latter  had  cried  out  from  the  stage  of  the  new 
theatre  on  the  day  of  inauguration :  "  In  the  work  of 
art  of  the  future  the  fountain  head  of  all  inven- 
tions shall  never  run  dry."  Art  was  as  infinite  as 
the  beauty  of  the  world.  There  are  no  limits  to 
strength  and  daring.  He  must  seek  further,  still 
further,  and  find.     "  Forward  !  Forward  !  " 

One  single,  vast,  formless  wave  summed  up  the 
anguish  and  the  aspirations  of  that  delirium,  con- 
torting itself  into  a  vortex,  rising  in  a  tidal  wave, 
seeming  to  condense  itself,  to  take  on  the  very 
qualities  of  plastic  matter,  to  obey  the  same  inex- 
haustible energy  that  shapes  all  things  and  all  beings 
under  the  sun.  A  form  of  extraordinary  purity  and 
beauty  was  born  of  that  travail,  took  life  and  shone 
with  almost  unbearable  happiness.  The  poet  saw  it, 
gathered  it  up  into  his  pure  eyes,  felt  its  roots  strik- 
ing into  the  very  centres  of  his  spirit.  "  Ah,  only 
to  express  it,  to  manifest  it  to  mankind,  to  fix  it  in 
its  perfection  for  all  eternity !  "  It  was  one  of  those 
sublime  instants  that  have  no  return.  Then  every- 
thing vanished.  Ordinary  life  flowed  on  around  him, 
fleeting  words  sounded,  expectation  throbbed,  all 
desire  fell  consumed. 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     131 

And  he  looked  at  the  woman.  Stars  twinkled, 
trees  waved  behind  Perdita's  head,  a  garden  deep- 
ened out,  and  still  the  eyes  of  the  woman  said :  "  Let 
me  serve  I    Let  me  serve  I  " 


In  the  garden,  the  guests  had  dispersed  along 
the  walks*  and  under  the  vine-trellises.  The  night 
air  was  damp  and  lukewarm  ;  delicate  eyelids  could 
feel  it  on  their  lashes  like  the  approach  of  a  warm, 
mobile  mouth.  The  hidden  stars  of  the  jessamine 
shrubs  yielded  their  acute  perfume  in  the  shadow; 
the  odour  of  the  fruits  too  was  as  strong  and  even 
heavier  than  in  the  island  gardens.  A  vivid  fertilis- 
ing power  emanated  from  that  small  space  of  culti- 
vated earth  that  was  enclosed  like  an  exiled  thing 
by  its  girdle  of  water,  becoming  all  the  more  intense 
from  its  banishment,  like  the  soul  of  the  exile. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  stay?  Do  you  wish  me  to 
return  after  the  others  have  gone  ?  Tell  me.  It  is 
late.  " 

"  No,  no,  Stelio,  I  beg  of  you.  It  is  late.  It  is  too 
late.     You  say  so  yourself." 

Mortal  dismay  was  in  the  woman's  voice.  Her 
bare  neck  and  her  bare  arms  shuddered  in  the  dark- 
ness; and  she  longed  to  deny  herself  and  she  longed 
to  be  possessed,  and  she  longed  to  die  and  longed  to 
be  shaken  by  his  man's  hands.  She  trembled ;  her 
teeth  trembled  in  her  mouth.  A  stream  that  seemed 
to  flow  from  a  glacier  submerged  her,  rolled  over  her, 
chilled  her  from  the  roots  of  her  hair  to  the  tips  of  her 
fingers.  The  joints  of  each  limb  ached  as  if  ready 
to  fall  asunder,  and  the  jaws  stiffened  by  her  terrof 


132  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

seemed  to  change  her  voice.  And  she  longed  to  die, 
and  longed  to  be  suddenly  taken  and  overthrown  by 
the  violence  of  his  manhood ;  and  over  her  dismay 
and  over  her  chill  and  over  her  body  that  was 
no  longer  young  the  same  terrible  sentence  hung 
suspended  that  the  loved  one  had  pronounced  and 
that  she  herself  had  repeated :  "  It  is  late ;  it  is  too 
late."  ^ 

"  Your  promise,  your  promise !  I  will  wait  no 
longer.     I  cannot,  Perdita." 

The  harbour,  voluptuous  like  a  proffered  bosom, 
the  estuary  lost  in  darkness  and  death,  the  City 
kindled  by  its  twilight  fire,  the  water  running  in 
the  invisible  clepsydra,  the  vibrating  bronze  of  the 
bells  close  to  the  heavens,  the  suffocating  desire,  the 
tightly  drawn  lips,  the  lowered  lids,  and  dry  hands, 
the  whole  fulness  of  the  tide  returned  with  the 
memory  of  the  silent  promise.  He  desired,  with  a 
savage  desire,  that  flesh  full  of  deep  things. 

"  I  will  wait  no  longer."  His  turbid  ardour  came 
to  him  from  far,  far  away,  from  the  remotest  of 
origins,  from  the  primitive  brutality  of  sudden  unions, 
from  the  antique  mystery  of  sacred  lusts.  Like  the 
throng  that  the  god  possessed  and  that  descended  the 
mountain-side,  tearing  up  trees,  pushing  on  with  a 
fury  ever  more  and  more  blind,  swelling  its  numbers 
with  other  madmen,  spreading  insanity  along  its 
passage  until  it  became  an  immense  animal  and 
human  multitude,  spurred  on  by  a  monstrous  will, 
the  crude  instinct  in  him  rushed  by,  troubling  all  the 
figures  of  his  soul  and  dragging  them  with  it  in  its 
rush  with  one  manifold  agitation.  And  what  he  most 
desired  in  that  despairing  woman  full  of  knowledge, 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     133 

was  the  creature  weighed  down  by  the  eternal  servi- 
tude of  her  nature,  destined  to  succumb  to  the  sudden 
convulsions  of  her  sex,  the  creature  who  habitually 
slaked  the  lucid  fever  of  the  stage  with  obscure, 
sleep-giving  pleasures,  the  actress  full  of  flame  who 
passed  from  the  frenzy  of  the  crowd  to  the  embrace 
of  manhood,  the  Dionysian  creature  who  was  wont  to 
crown  her  mysterious  rites  by  the  act  of  life  as  in  the 
Orgies  of  old. 

His  desire  lost  all  proportion  and  became  mad,  full 
of  the  quiver  of  conquered  multitudes  and  the  intoxi- 
cation of  her  unknown  lovers  and  the  vision  of 
orgiastic  promiscuities ;  cruelty,  rancour,  jealousy, 
poetry,  and  pride  were  in  his  desire.  Regret  stung 
him  for  never  having  possessed  the  actress  after 
some  theatrical  triumph,  still  warm  with  the  breath 
of  the  crowd,  covered  with  sweat,  pale  and  panting, 
still  wearing  the  traces  of  the  tragic  soul  that  had 
wept  and  cried  out  in  her,  with  the  tears  of  that  intrud- 
ing soul  still  damp  on  her  convulsed  face.  For  the 
space  of  a  lightning-flash  he  saw  her  outstretched, 
full  of  the  power  that  had  drawn  a  howl  from  the 
monster,  throbbing  like  a  Maenad  after  the  dance, 
parched  and  tired,  yet  needing  to  be  taken,  to  be 
shaken,  to  feel  herself  contracting  in  a  last  spasm, 
to  receive  some  violent  germ,  in  order  to  quiet 
down  at  last  to  a  lethargy  without  dreams.  How 
many  men  had  come  forth  from  the  crowd  to 
clasp  her  after  having  panted  for  her  lost  in  the 
unanimous  mass?  Their  desire  had  been  made  of 
the  desire  of  thousands,  their  vigour  multiplied. 
Something  of  the  drunkenness  of  the  people,  some- 
thing of  the  fascinated  monster,  would  penetrate  into 


134  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

the  bosom  of  the  actress  with  the  pleasure  of  those 
nights. 

"  Don't  be  cruel ;  don't  be  cruel !  "  implored  the 
woman,  feeling  all  that  turbulence  in  his  voice  and 
reading  it  in  his  eyes.     "  Oh,  do  not  hurt  me  !" 

Once  more,  under  the  voracious  gaze  of  the  young 
man,  her  body  seemed  to  contract  at  the  resistance  of 
a  painful  modesty.  His  desire  reached  her  like  a 
wound  that  tore  her  open.  She  knew  how  much  was 
pungent  and  impure  in  that  sudden  excitement,  how 
deeply  rooted  was  his  opinion  of  her  that  considered 
her  a  poisoned  and  corrupt  thing  laden  with  many 
loves,  an  expert  in  all  that  was  pleasure,  a  wandering, 
implacable  temptress.  She  divined  his  ill-will,  his 
jealousy,  the  malignity  of  the  fever  that  had  suddenly 
been  kindled  in  the  dear  friend  to  whom  she  had 
consecrated  all  that,  shut  up  within  herself,  was  pre- 
cious and  sincere,  for  whom  she  had  preserved  the 
value  of  that  offering  by  a  constant  refusal.  Hence- 
forward all  was  lost,  all  had  been  devastated  at  a 
blow,  like  a  beautiful  domain  that  has  become  the 
prey  of  vindictive  rebel  slaves.  And  almost  as  if  she 
had  been  on  her  death-bed  and  in  her  last  agony,  the 
whole  of  her  sharp,  stormy  life  rose  up  before  her, 
her  life  of  pain  and  struggle,  of  bewilderment,  passion, 
and  triumph.  She  felt  all  the  weight,  all  the  encum- 
brance of  it.  She  remembered  the  ineffable  feeling 
of  joy,  of  terror,  and  of  liberation  that  had  possessed 
her  when  she  gave  herself  up  for  the  first  time  in  her 
far-away  girlhood  to  the  man  who  had  deluded  her. 
And  there  passed  through  her  soul  with  a  frightful 
stab  the  image  of  the  virgin  who  had  withdrawn  her- 
self that  day,  who  had  disappeared,  who  was  perhaps 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     135 

still  dreaming  in  her  solitary  chamber,  or  was  weep- 
ing or  promising  herself,  or  prostrate  was  tasting 
already  the  joy  of  her  promise.  *'  It  is  late ;  it  is  too 
late !  "  The  irrevocable  word  seemed  to  pass  con- 
tinually over  her  head  like  the  roll  of  a  bronze  bell. 
And  his  desire  reached  her  like  a  wound  that  tore 
her  open. 

"  Oh,  do  not  hurt  me !  " 

She  stood  imploring  him,  white  and  slight  like  the 
swansdown  that  ran  round  her  neck  and  on  her  rest- 
less bosom.  She  seemed  to  have  separated  herself 
from  her  power,  to  have  become  light  and  weak, 
clothed  with  a  secret,  tender  soul  that  was  so  easy  to 
be  killed,  to  be  destroyed  and  offered  up  as  a  blood- 
less sacrifice. 

"  No,  Perdita;  I  will  not  hurt  you,"  he  stammered, 
suddenly  unnerved  by  her  voice  and  countenance, 
seized  at  the  entrails  by  a  feeling  of  human  pity 
which  had  arisen  from  the  same  depths  as  his  first 
savage  instinct.     "  Forgive  me;  forgive  me." 

It  would  have  pleased  him  now  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  to  nurse  her,  comfort  her,  to  feel  her  weeping 
and  to  drink  in  her  tears.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
did  not  recognise  her,  that  it  was  an  unknown  person 
who  stood  there  before  him,  one  infinitely  pained 
and  lowly  and  deprived  of  all  strength.  And  his 
pity  and  remorse  were  a  little  like  what  one  would 
feel  if  one  had  unwillingly  offended  or  hurt  a  sick 
person  or  a  child,  some  little  and  inoffensive  lonely 
being. 

"  Forgive  me  I  " 

It  would  have  pleased  him  to  kneel  down  before 
her,  to  kiss  her  feet  in  the  grass  or  say  some  little 


136  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

word  to  her.  He  stooped  and  touched  one  of  her 
hands.  She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  turned  her 
widened  eyes  towards  him,  then  cast  them  down 
again  and  remained  motionless.  The  shadows  accu- 
mulated under  the  arch  of  her  eyebrows,  marking 
the  undulation  of  the  cheek-bone.  Again  the  icy 
stream  submerged  her. 

They  heard  the  voices  of  the  guests  who  were  scat- 
tered about  the  garden ;  then  a  great  silence  came. 
They  heard  the  gravel  creak  under  some  footstep ; 
then  again  a  great  silence  came.  An  indistinct  clam- 
our reached  them  from  the  distance  of  the  canals. 
All  at  once  the  perfume  of  the  jessamine  seemed 
to  have  become  stronger,  like  a  heart  that  has  quick- 
ened its  throbs.  The  night  seemed  to  be  heavy  with 
wonders.  The  eternal  forces  were  harmoniously  at 
work  between  the  earth  and  the  stars. 

"  Forgive  me  !  If  my  desire  gives  you  pain,  I  will 
go  on  suffocating  it.  I  am  even  capable  of  giving  it 
up,  of  obeying  you.  Perdita,  Perdita,  I  will  forget 
what  your  eyes  said  to  me  up  there  among  the  use- 
less words.  .  .  .  What  clasp,  what  caress,  could  have 
united  us  more  deeply?  All  the  passion  of  night 
urged  us  and  threw  us  towards  each  other.  I  re- 
ceived you  all  into  myself  like  a  wave.  And  now  it 
seems  that  I  can  no  longer  divide  you  from  my  own 
blood,  it  seems  that  you  too  cannot  go  away  from 
me,  and  that  we  should  set  out  together  towards 
I  know  not  what  daybreak  .  .  ." 

He  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  putting  his  whole 
self  into  his  words,  as  if  he  had  become  some  vibrat- 
ing substance  in  which  at  every  moment  all  the 
changes  of  that  nocturnal  creature  seemed  to  impress 


THE   EPIPHANY  OF  THE   FLAME     137 

themselves.  It  was  no  longer  the  heavy  human 
prison,  a  bodily  shape  made  of  opaque  and  impene- 
trable flesh  that  was  there  before  him,  but  a  soul  that 
was  revealing  itself  in  a  variety  of  appearances  as 
expressive  as  melodies,  a  sensibility  delicate  and  pow- 
erful beyond  all  measure  that  was  creating  in  her  in 
turns  the  frailty  of  flowers,  the  vigour  of  marble,  the 
vehemence  of  the  flame,  all  that  is  shadow  and  all 
that  is  light  s 

"  Stelio  1 " 

She  only  just  said  the  name,  and  yet  in  the  dying 
breath  that  came  from  her  pale  lips  there  was  as 
great  an  immensity  of  wonder  and  exaltation  as  in 
the  loudest  cry.  She  had  caught  the  sound  of  love 
in  the  words  of  the  man  beside  her,  —  of  love,  love  I 
She,  who  had  so  often  listened  to  beautiful  perfect 
words  flowing  towards  her  in  that  limpid  voice  and  had 
suffered  from  them  as  from  a  torture  and  a  mockery, 
now,  because  of  this  new  accent  in  it,  saw  her  own 
life  and  the  life  of  the  world  transfigured  Her  soul 
seemed  to  reverse  itself,  the  heavy  encumbrances  fall- 
ing to  unknown  depths,  disappearing  in  endless  dark- 
ness, while  there  came  to  the  surface  something  light 
and  luminous,  something  free  and  spotless,  that  dilated 
and  curved  into  a  glorious  dome  like  a  morning  sky; 
and  as  the  wave  of  light  creeps  from  horizon  to 
zenith  in  its  silent  harmony,  the  illusion  of  happi- 
ness rose  upon  her  lips.  An  infinite  smile  diff'used 
itself  there,  so  infinite  that  the  lines  of  her  mouth 
trembled  in  it  like  leaves  in  the  wind,  her  teeth  shone 
in  it  like  jessamine  blossoms  in  the  light  of  stars, — 
the  slenderest  of  shapes  in  a  vast  element. 

"  All  is  abolished ;    all  has  vanished.     I  have  not 


138  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

lived,  I  have  not  loved,  I  have  not  enjoyed,  I  have 
not  suffered,  I  am  new  again.  This  is  the  only  love 
I  know.  I  am  pure  again.  I  would  that  I  could  die 
in  the  joy  you  will  reveal  to  me.  Years  and  their 
facts  have  passed  over  me  without  touching  that  part 
of  my  soul  that  I  have  been  keeping  for  you,  that 
secret  heaven  which  has  opened  up  suddenly  and  has 
conquered  shadows,  and  has  remained  alone  to  hold 
the  strength  and  sweetness  of  your  name.  Your  love 
is  saving  me ;  the  fulness  of  my  clasp  will  make  you 
divine.  ..." 

Words  of  ecstasy  sprang  from  her  enfranchised 
heart,  but  her  lips  dared  not  speak  them,  and  she 
went  on  smiling,  smiling  that  infinite  smile  of  hers, 
still  in  silence. 

"  Is  it  not  true  ?  Tell  me  !  Answer  me,  Perdita.  Do 
not  you  too  feel  this  necessity?  This  necessity  that 
has  become  stronger  with  all  the  strength  of  our 
renunciation,  with  all  the  constancy  we  have  shown 
in  waiting  for  the  fulness  of  the  hour?  Ah,  it  does 
indeed  seem  to  me  that  all  my  hopes  and  all  my 
presentiments  would  be  as  nothing,  Perdita,  if  this 
hour  were  not  to  come.  Tell  me  that  you  could  not 
get  to  that  daybreak  without  me  as  I  could  not  with- 
out you.     Answer  me." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  " 

In  that  faint  syllable,  she  gave  herself  up  irre- 
claimably.  The  smile  went  out;  the  mouth  became 
heavy,  appearing  in  almost  hard  relief  against  the 
pallor  of  her  face,  as  if  thirst  were  swelling  it,  strong 
to  attract,  to  take,  to  hold,  insatiable.  And  her  whole 
person,  that  had  seemed  to  shrivel  in  her  pain  and 
terror,  drew  itself  up  again  as  if  a  new  framework  had 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     139 

suddenly  grown  within  it,  reconquered  its  carnal 
power,  was  overswept  by  an  impetuous  wave,  be- 
came once  more  desirable  and  impure. 

"  Let  us  wait  no  longer;   it  is  late." 

He  was  trembling  with  impatience.  The  fury  was 
again  taking  hold  of  him ;  frenzy  had  again  seized 
him  by  the  throat  with  its  feline  claws. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  the  woman,  but  in  a  different 
tone,  her  eyes  plunged  into  his  as  if  she  were  now 
certain  of  possessing  the  philtre  that  was  to  bind  him 
to  her  lastingly. 

He  felt  the  many  joys  that  must  pervade  that  flesh 
full  of  deep  things  enter  his  heart.  He  looked  at  her 
and  turned  pale,  as  if  his  blood  had  suddenly  been 
dispersed  over  the  earth  and  was  sinking  into  it  to 
nourish  the  roots  of  growing  things,  as  if  he  were 
standing  in  a  dream,  outside  all  time,  alone  with  her 
who  was  alone. 

She  was  standing  under  the  fruit-laden  shrub  which 
she  had  adorned  with  necklaces ;  her  whole  person 
was  sharply  drawn  and  curved  like  her  lips,  and 
fever  darted  from  all  her  limbs  like  the  breath  darts 
from  between  the  lips.  The  unexpected  beauty 
made  up  of  a  thousand  ideal  forces  that  had  illu- 
mined her  in  the  supper-room  renewed  itself  in  her 
still  more  intensely,  made  up  now  of  a  flame  that 
never  fades,  «f  a  fervour  that  never  languishes.  The 
magnificent  fruits,  bearing  upon  them  the  crown  of 
the  kingly  giver,  hung  above  her  head,  the  myth  of 
the  pomegranate  was  revivified  in  the  night  as  it  had 
been  at  the  passage  of  the  laden  boat  on  the  even- 
ing water.  Who  was  she?  Persephone,  Queen  of 
Shadows?     Had   she   lived   there  where  all  human 


I40  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

agitations  seem  but  the  wind's  sport  amid  the  dust 
of  an  endless  road?  Had  she  seen  the  world  where 
its  springs  are,  counted  in  a  subterranean  world 
the  roots  of  flowers  immovable  like  the  veins  in 
a  petrified  body?  Was  she  tired  or  drunk  with 
human  tears  and  laughter  and  lusts,  and  with  having 
touched  all  mortal  things  one  by  one  to  see  them 
blossom  and  to  see  them  perish?  Who  was  she, 
then?  Had  she  struck  upon  the  cities  like  a  curse? 
Had  her  kiss  for  ever  closed  all  lips  that  sang? 
Had  she  stopped  the  throb  of  tyrannous  souls, 
and  poisoned  youths  with  the  sweat  of  her  body 
that  was  salt  like  the  foam  of  the  sea?  Who  was 
she;  who  was  she?  What  was  the  past  that  made 
her  so  pale,  so  ardent,  and  so  perilous?  Had  she 
already  told  all  her  secrets  and  given  away  all  her 
gifts,  or  could  she  still  accomplish  some  new  work 
that  would  bring  wonder  to  this  new  lover,  to  whom 
life,  desire,  and  victory,  all  three,  meant  one  only 
thing?  All  this  and  still  more,  still  more  was  offered 
to  his  dream  by  the  thin  veins  on  her  temples,  the 
undulation  of  her  cheeks,  the  power  of  her  body, 
the  bluish-greenish  shadow  as  of  the  sea  that  was  the 
element  in  which  her  face  lived  as  the  eye  lives  in 
its  own  moisture, 

"All  evil  and  all  good,  that  which  I  know  and 
that  which  I  ignore,  that  which  you  know  and  that 
which  you  ignore,  all  was  reserved  for  the  fulness 
of  our  night."  Life  and  dream  had  become  one 
only  thing.  Thoughts  and  senses  were  as  wines 
poured  out  in  one  same  cup.  Their  garments  and 
their  bare  faces,  their  hopes  and  the  sight  of  their 
eyes  were  like  the  plants  of  that  garden,  like  the  air. 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF   THE   FLAME     141 

the  stars,  and  the  silence.  The  hidden  harmony  of 
Nature  became  apparent,  by  which  she  has  mixed 
together  and  dissimulated  all  her  differences  and 
diversities. 

It  was  one  of  those  sublime  moments  that  have  no 
return.  Before  even  his  soul  was  conscious  of  it, 
his  hands  went  out  to  her  in  their  desire,  touched 
her  body,  drew  it  towards  him,  found  pleasure  in 
feeling    that   it  was  cold   and  sweet. 

When  she  felt  his  strong  hands  on  her  bare  arm, 
the  woman  threw  her  head  back  as  if  about  to  'fall. 
Under  her  dying  eyelids,  between  her  dying  lips,  the 
white  of  her  eyes  and  the  white  of  her  teeth  glittered 
like  things  that  glitter  for  the  last  time.  Then 
quickly  she  raised  her  head  and  revived ;  her  mouth 
sought  the  mouth  that  was  seeking  it  They  stamped 
themselves  on  each  other.  No  seal  was  ever  deeper. 
Love,  like  the  shrub  above  them,  covered  both  those 
deluded  ones. 

They  separated ;  they  gazed  at  each  other  without 
seeing.  They  could  see  nothing.  They  were  blind. 
They  could  hear  a  terrible  roll  as  if  the  quiver 
of  bronze  bells  had  re-entered  their  very  forehead. 
Nevertheless  they  heard  the  dull  thud  of  a  pome- 
granate that  had  fallen  on  the  grass  from  a  branch 
they  had  shaken  in  their  violent  clasp.  They  shook 
themselves  as  if  to  throw  off  a  mantle  that  was 
burdening  them.  They  saw  each  other  and  became 
lucid  again.  They  heard  the  voices  of  their  friends 
who  were  scattered  about  the  garden  and  a  distant 
indistinct  clamour  from  the  canals  where  perhaps  the 
antique  pageants  were  repassing, 

"  Well, "  asked  the  young  man,  eagerly,  scorched 


142  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

to  the  marrow  by  that  kiss  that  had  been  full  of  flesh 
and  soul. 

The  woman  bent  down  to  the  grass  to  pick  up  the 
pomegranate.  It  was  quite  ripe  and  broken  by  its 
fall;  its  blood-like  juice  was  flowing;  it  moistened 
her  parched  hand  and  stained  her  light  dress.  With 
the  remembrance  of  the  laden  boat,  the  pale  island, 
and  the  meadow  of  asphodel,  the  words  of  the  Life- 
giver  came  back  to  her  loving  spirit.  "  This  is  my 
body.  .  .  .  Take  and  eat." 

"  Well  ?  " 

*'  Yes." 

She  pressed  the  fruit  in  her  hand  with  an  instinc- 
tive movement,  as  if  to  crush  it.  The  juice  trickled 
in  a  streak  over  her  wrist.  Then  her  whole  body 
contracted  and  vibrated  as  if  round  a  knot  of  fire, 
craving  for  subjection.  Again  the  icy  river  sub- 
merged her,  passing  over  her,  chilling  her  from  the 
roots  of  her  hair  to  the  points  of  her  fingers  without 
extinguishing  that  knot  of  fire. 

"  How?  Tell  me  !  "  the  young  man  urged,  almost 
roughly,  as  he  felt  his  madness  rising  again  and  the 
odour  of  the  Orgy  returning  from  afar. 

"  Leave  when  the  others  leave,  then  come  back.  I 
will  wait  for  you  at  the  gate  of  the  Gradenigo  Garden." 

The  wretched  carnal  trembling  shook  her.  She 
had  become  the  prey  of  an  invincible  power.  He 
saw  her  again  for  the  space  of  a  flash  as  he  had 
pictured  her  before,  outstretched,  moist,  and  throb- 
bing like  a  Maenad  after  the  dance.  Again  they 
gazed  upon  each  other,  but  they  could  not  bear  the 
suffering  brought  by  the  fierce  eyes  of  their  desire. 
They  parted. 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     143 

She  went   away  towards  the  voices  of  the  poets 
who  had  exalted  the  idealism  of  her  power. 


Lost!  lost!  Henceforth  she  was  lost!  She  was 
still  living,  yet  overthrown,  humiliated,  wounded  as 
if  she  had  been  pitilessly  trodden  under  foot ;  she 
was  still  living,  and  the  dawn  was  rising,  and  the 
days  were  beginning  again,  and  the  fresh  tide  was 
flowing  again  into  the  City  Beautiful,  and  Donatella 
was  still  pure  on  her  pillows.  It  was  already  melting 
into  infinite  distance,  although  it  was  still  so  near, 
that  hour  in  which  she  had  waited  for  her  lover  at 
the  gate,  had  heard  his  steps  in  the  almost  funereal 
silence  of  the  deserted  sidepath,  had  felt  her  knees 
give  way  as  under  a  blow,  and  the  terrible  roll  as  of 
bronze  bells  fill  her  head.  That  hour  was  already 
very  far,  yet  in  all  her  body,  together  with  the  tremu- 
lousness  that  pleasure  had  left  there,  the  sensations  of 
that  time  of  waiting  persisted  with  strange  intensity ; 
the  chill  of  the  railing  against  which  she  had  laid 
her  brow,  the  acrid  odour  that  rose  from  the  grass 
as  from  a  retting-tank,  the  warm  moist  tongue  of 
Myrta's  greyhounds  that  had  noiselessly  come  and 
licked  her  hands. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye  !  " 

She  was  lost.  He  had  risen  from  her  bed  as  from 
the  couch  of  a  courtesan,  almost  a  stranger  to  her, 
almost  impatient,  attracted  by  the  freshness  of  dawn, 
by  the  freedom  of  morning. 

"  Good-bye  I  " 

From  her  window  she  caught  sight  of  him  on  the 
shore,  drinking  in  a  wide  breath  of  vivid  air;  then 


144  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

in  the  great  calm  she  heard  his  firm,  clear  voice 
calling  the  gondolier:  — 

"  Zorzi !  " 

The  man  was  sleeping  in  the  bottom  of  his  gondola 
and  his  human  sleep  was  like  the  sleep  of  the  curved 
boat  that  obeyed  him.  As  Stelio  touched  him  with 
his  foot,  he  awoke  with  a  start,  jumped  to  the  stern, 
seized  his  oar.  The  man  and  the  boat  woke  up  at 
the  same  time,  in  perfect  harmony  with  each  other, 
like  a  single  body,  ready  to  glide  on  the  water. 

"  Your  servant,  master,"  said  Zorzi,  with  a  good- 
natured  smile,  glancing  at  the  sky  that  was  growing 
lighter.     "  Do  you  sit  down,  and  I  will  row." 

Opposite  the  palace  some  one  threw  open  the  great 
door  leading  to  some  works.  It  was  a  stone-cutting 
establishment,  where  steps  were  being  cut  out  of 
the  stone  of  Val  di  Sole. 

"To  ascend,"  thought  Stelio,  and  his  superstitious 
heart  gladdened  at  the  good  omen.  The  name  of 
the  quarry,  too  (the  Valley  of  the  Sun),  seemed 
radiant  on  the  door-plate.  The  image  of  a  staircase 
signified  his  own  ascension.  He  had  already  seen 
it  in  the  abandoned  garden  on  the  coat  of  arms  of 
the  Gradenigo.  "  Higher,  ever  higher !  "  Joy  was 
again  bubbling  up  from  the  depths.  The  morning 
seemed  to  stimulate  all  the  works  of  man. 

"And  Perdita?  And  Ariadne?"  He  saw  them 
again  at  the  top  of  the  marble  staircase  in  the  light 
of  the  smoking  torches,  thrown  so  close  to  each 
other  by  the  throng  that  they  had  blended  in  one 
same  whiteness,- — the  two  temptresses,  both  emerg- 
ing from  the  crowd  as  from  the  clasp  of  a  monster. 
"  And  la  Tanagra?"     The  Syracusan  with  the  long 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     145 

goat-like  eyes  then  appeared,  in  a  restful  pose,  knitted 
to  her  mother  earth,  as  the  figure  of  a  bas-relief 
is  attached  to  the  marble  in  which  it  is  carved. 
"The  Dionysian  Trinity!"  He  pictured  them  to 
himself  as  freed  from  every  passion,  like  the  crea- 
tures of  Art.  The  surface  of  his  soul  was  being 
covered  with  splendid,  rapid  images,  like  a  sea 
scattered  over  with  swelling  sails.  He  had  ceased 
to  suffer.  The  increasing  daylight  was  spreading 
a  sharp  sense  of  newness  over  his  whole  sub- 
stance. The  heat  of  the  night's  fever  was  entirely 
dispersing  in  the  breeze ;  its  fumes  were  being  dis- 
sipated. What  was  happening  all  around,  happened 
in  himself  too.  He  was  being  born  anew  with  the 
morning. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  light  you  any  more 
now  I "  murmured  the  oarsman,  putting  out  the  gon- 
dola lantern. 

"  By  San  Giovanni  Decollato,  to  the  Grand  Canal," 
cried  Stelio,  sitting  down. 

And  while  the  dentellated  prow  turned  into  the 
Canal  of  San  Giacomo  dall'  Orio,  he  turned  to  look  at 
the  palace,  which  was  leaden  in  the  shadow.  An  illu- 
minated window  suddenly  grew  dark  like  an  eye  that 
is  blinded.  "  Good-bye,  good-bye."  His  heart  gave 
a  leap,  pleasure  waved  back  into  his  veins,  images  of 
pain  and  death  passed  over  all  the  others.  The  wo- 
man no  longer  young  had  remained  up  there  alone, 
with  the  expression  of  a  dying  thing  on  her  face; 
the  virgin  was  preparing  to  go  back  to  the  place  of 
her  torment.  He  knew  not  how  to  pity,  he  could 
only  promise.  From  the  abundance  of  his  strength, 
he  drew  the  illusion  of  being  able,  for  his  greater  joy. 


146  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

to  change  those  two  destinies.  He  ceased  to  suflfer. 
All  uneasiness  yielded  before  the  simple  pleasure  of 
the  eyes  offered  him  by  the  sights  of  the  morning. 
The  leaves  peeping  over  the  garden  walls,  behind 
which  the  twitter  of  the  sparrows  was  already  awaken- 
ing, hid  from  him  the  pallor  of  Perdita ;  the  sinuous 
lips  of  the  singer  were  lost  in  the  water's  undulation. 
That  which  was  happening  around,  happened  to  him 
too.  The  arch  and  the  echo  of  the  bridges,  the 
swimming  seaweeds,  the  moan  of  the  pigeons,  were 
like  his  breathing,  his  confidence,  his  hunger. 

"  Stop  in  front  of  the  Palazzo  Vendramin-Calergi," 
he  ordered  the  boatman. 

As  he  passed  by  a  garden  wall,  he  tore  away  a  few 
frail,  flowering  plants  from  the  interstices  of  the  bricks 
that  had  the  rich,  dark  colour  of  clotted  blood.  The 
flowers  were  violet,  of  extreme  delicacy,  almost  im- 
palpable. He  thought  of  the  myrtles  that  grow  along 
the  Gulf  of  vEgina,  hardy  and  erect,  like  bronze 
bushes.  He  thought  of  the  little  dark  cypresses  that 
crown  the  stony  tops  of  the  Tuscan  Hills,  of  the  high 
laurels  that  protect  the  statues  in  the  Roman  villas. 
His  thoughts  increased  the  value  of  the  autumnal 
flowers  that  were  too  slight  an  offering  for  Him  who 
had  known  how  to  give  his  life  the  great  victory  He 
had  promised  it. 

"  Go  to  shore." 

The  Canal  was  deserted;  it  was  like  an  ancient 
river,  full  of  poetry  and  silence.  The  green  sky  was 
mirrored  in  it  with  its  last  dying  stars.  At  the  first 
glance  the  palace  had  an  aerial  appearance  as  of  a 
painted  cloud  laid  on  the  water;  the  shade  in  which 
it  was  still  wrapped  had  about  it  something  of  the 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     147 

quality  of  velvet,  the  beauty  of  something  rich  and 
soft.  And  in  the  same  manner  that  the  pattern 
slowly  discloses  itself  in  thick  velvet,  slowly  the  lines 
of  the  architecture  became  visible  in  the  three  Corin- 
thian orders  that  rose  with  their  rhythm  ot  grace  and 
strength,  to  the  summit  where  the  emblems  of  noble 
estate,  the  eagles,  the  horses,  and  the  pitchers,  were 
entwined  with  the  roses  of  the  Loredan.  NON 
Nobis,  Domine.    Non  Nobis. 

It  was  there  that  the  great  ailing  heart  was  beat- 
ing. The  image  of  the  barbaric  creator  reappeared, 
with  its  blue  eyes  shining  under  the  vast  brow,  its 
lips  closing  above  the  robust  chin  that  was  armed 
with  sensuality,  pride,  and  disdain.  Was  he  asleep? 
Could  he  sleep,  or  did  he  lie  sleepless  with  his  glory? 
The  young  man  recalled  strange  things  that  were 
told  of  him.  Was  it  true  that  he  could  not  sleep, 
except  on  his  wife's  heart,  closely  held  by  her,  and 
that  even  in  his  old  age  there  persisted  in  him  this 
need  of  a  loving  contact?  He  recalled  a  story  of 
Lady  Myrta's,  who,  when  she  was  in  Palermo,  had 
visited  the  Villa  d'Angri,  where  the  cupboards  in  the 
room  inhabited  by  the  old  man  had  remained  im- 
pregnated with  so  violent  an  essence  of  roses  that  it 
still  turned  her  faint.  He  saw  the  small,  tired  body 
adorned  with  gems,  wrapped  in  sumptuous  sheets, 
perfumed  like  a  corpse  prepared  for  the  funeral  pyre. 
And  was  it  not  Venice  that  had  given  him,  as  of  old 
it  had  given  Albert  Diirer,  a  taste  for  things  sumpt- 
uous and  voluptuous?  It  was  in  the  silence  of  the 
canals  that  he  had  heard  the  passing  of  the  most 
ardent  breath  of  his  music,  —  the  deadly  passion  of 
Tristan  and  Isolde. 


148  THE   FLAME  OF  LIFE 

Now  the  great  ailing  heart  was  throbbing  there, 
and  there  its  formidable  impulse  was  dying  out.  The 
patrician  palace  with  the  eagles  and  horses  and 
pitchers  and  roses  was  shut  up  and  as  dumb  as  a 
great  sepulchre.  The  sky  above  the  marbles  was 
reddening  at  the  breath  of  dawn. 

"  Hail  to  the  victorious  one  !  "  And  Stelio  threw 
the  flowers  down  before  the  door. 

"Goon!     Goon!" 

The  oarsman  bent  over  the  oars,  spurred  by  that 
sudden  impatience.  The  slight  boat  skipped  over 
the  water.  The  canal  was  all  alight  on  one  side. 
A  tawny  sail  passed  noiselessly.  The  sea,  the  bright 
waves,  the  laugh  of  the  sea-birds,  the  wind  out  in  the 
open,  rose  up  before  his  desire. 

"  Row,  Zorzi !  To  the  Veneta  Marina  by  the 
Canal  dell'  Olio,"  cried  the  young  man. 

The  canal  seemed  too  small  for  his  soul  to  breathe 
in.  Victory  was  as  necessary  to  him  now  as  air.  He 
wanted  to  test  the  well-tempered  quality  of  his  nature, 
after  the  night's  delirium,  in  the  light  of  the  morning, 
and  in  the  sharpness  of  the  sea.  He  was  not  sleepy ; 
there  was  a  circle  of  freshness  round  his  eyes  as  if  he 
had  bathed  them  with  dew.  He  felt  no  need  of  rest, 
only  a  horror  of  his  hotel  bed  as  of  a  resting-place 
too  vile  for  him.  "  The  deck  of  a  vessel,  the  smell 
of  salt  and  pitch,  the  throb  of  a  red  sail  .  .  ." 

"  Row,  Zorzi !  " 

The  gondolier  rowed  with  increased  vigour;  the 
rowlock  now  and  then  creaked  under  his  effort. 
The  Fondaco  del  Turchi  melted  away  like  worn  and 
marvellously  discoloured  ivory,  like  the  surviving 
portico   of   a   ruined    mosque.      The   palace   of  the 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     149 

Cornaro  and  the  palace  of  the  Pesaro  passed  them, 
like  two  opaque  giants  blackened  by  time  as  by  the 
smoke  of  a  conflagration.  The  Ca'd'Oro  passed  them 
like  a  divine  play  of  stone  and  air  ;  then  the  Rialto 
showed  its  ample  back  already  noisy  with  popular 
life,  laden  with  its  encumbered  shops,  filled  with  the 
odour  of  fish  and  vegetables,  like  an  enormous  cor- 
nucopia pouring  on  the  shore  all  round  it  an  abun- 
dance of  the  fruits  of  the  earth  and  sea  with  which 
to  feed  the  dominant  city. 

"  I  am  hungry,  I  am  hungry,  Zorzi,"  said  Stelio, 
laughing. 

"A  good  sign  when  the  night  makes  you  hungry; 
only  the  old  are  made  sleepy  by  it,"  said  Zorzi. 

"  Go  to  shore  !  " 

At  a  stall  he  bought  some  of  the  grapes  of  the 
Vignole,  and  some  of  the  figs  of  Malamocco,  heaped 
on  a  plate  of  vine-leaves. 

"  Row !  " 

The  gondola  veered  under  the  warehouse  of  the 
Tedeschi,  slipping  along  the  dark,  narrow  canals 
towards  the  Rio  de  Palazzo.  The  bells  of  San 
Giovanni  Crisostomo,  of  San  Giovanni  Elemosinario, 
of  San  Cassiano,  of  Santa  Maria  dei  Miracoli,  of  Santa 
Maria  Formosa,  and  of  San  Lio  were  joyously  ringing 
in  the  dawn.  The  noise  of  the  market,  with  its  odours 
of  fishery,  of  green  stuff  and  of  wine,  was  drowned  in 
the  salutation  of  the  bronzes.  The  strip  of  water  under 
the  strip  of  sky,  between  the  still  sleeping  walls  of  brick 
and  marble,  became  ever  more  resplendent  before  the 
metal  of  the  prow,  as  if  the  race  were  lighting  it  up, 
and  that  increase  of  light  gave  Stelio  the  illusion 
of  a  flaming  swiftness.     He  thought  of  a  boat  that  is 


ISO  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

being  launched,  raising  sparks  as  it  slips  into  the  sea : 
the  waves  fume  all  round,  the  crowd  shouts  and 
applauds. 

"  To  the  Ponte  della  Paglia !  '* 

A  thought  as  spontaneous  as  an  instinct  was  lead- 
ing him  to  the  glorious  place  where  it  seemed  that 
there  must  still  remain  some  trace  of  his  own  lyrical 
animations,  and  some  echoes  of  the  great  Bacchic 
Chorus.  '*  Viva  il  forte!"  The  gondola  grazed 
the  powerful  flank  of  the  ducal  palace,  standing  com- 
pact like  a  single  mass  worked  by  chisels  that  had 
been  as  apt  at  finding  melodies  there  as  the  bows  of 
musical  instruments.  He  embraced  that  mass  with 
the  whole  of  his  newly  arisen  soul ;  there,  once  more, 
he  heard  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  the  crash  of 
applause,  saw  the  great,  many-eyed  Chimera,  its  bust 
covered  with  resplendent  scales,  its  length  blackening 
under  enormous  gilded  scrolls,  and  distinctly  saw 
himself  oscillating  above  the  multitude  like  a  hollow, 
sonorous  body  inhabited  by  some  mysterious  will. 
He  was  saying  the  words :  "  To  create  with  joy !  It 
is  the  attribute  of  Divinity !  It  is  impossible  to 
imagine  at  the  summit  of  our  spirit  a  more  triumph- 
ant act.  The  very  words  which  express  it  have  some- 
thing of  the  splendour  of  dawn.  .  .  ."  He  went  on 
repeating  to  himself,  to  the  air,  to  the  water,  to  the 
stones,  to  the  ancient  city,  to  the  young  dawn  :  "  To 
create  with  joy,  to  create  with  joy."  When  the  prow 
passed  under  the  bridge,  he  absorbed  in  the  wider 
breath  he  drew,  together  with  all  his  own  hope  and 
courage,  all  the  beauty  and  all  the  strength  of  his  ante- 
rior life. 

"  Find  me  a  boat,  Zorzi,  a  boat  that  will  go  out  to 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  FLAME     151 

sea."  He  seemed  to  need  still  more  breathing  space, 
to  need  the  wind,  the  sea  salt,  the  foam,  the  swollen 
sail,  the  bowsprit  pointed  towards  an  immense  ho- 
rizon. 

"  To  the  Veneta  Marina !  Find  me  a  fishing  boat. 
Some  braghozzo  from  Chioggia." 

He  caught  sight  of  a  great  red  and  black  sail  that 
had  only  just  been  hoisted,  and  was  flapping  as  it 
caught  the  wind,  haughty  as  an  old  republican  ban- 
ner, bearing  the  Lion  and  the  Book. 

"  There  it  is !  there  it  is !  We  must  overtake  it, 
Zorzi." 

Impatiently  he  waved  his  hand  to  the  boat,  signing 
to  her  to  stop. 

"  Shout  out  to  the  boat  that  they  must  wait  for 
me!" 

The  man  at  the  oar,  heated  and  dripping,  threw  a 
cry  of  recall  to  the  man  at  the  sail.  The  gondola  flew 
like  a  canoe  in  a  regatta  to  the  panting  of  the  gon- 
dolier's mighty  breast. 

"  Bravo,  Zorzi !  " 

But  Stelio  was  panting  too,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
overtake  his  fortune,  or  some  happy  aim,  or  the  cer- 
tainty of  empire. 

"  We  have  run  in  and  won  the  flag,"  said  the  oars- 
man, rubbing  his  heated  hands  with  a  frank  laugh 
that  seemed  to  refresh  him.     "  What  folly !  " 

The  gesture,  the  tone,  the  popular  wit,  the  aston- 
ished faces  of  the  fisherman  leaning  over  the  parapet, 
the  reflection  of  the  sail  that  made  the  water  blood- 
like, the  cordial  odour  of  bread  that  came  from  a 
neighbouring  bakehouse,  the  odour  of  boiling  tar 
from   a   neighbouring    dockyard,    the   noise   of  the 


IS2  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

arsenal  work-people  going  to  their  warlike  labour,  all 
the  strong  emanation  of  that  shore  where  one  could 
still  smell  the  old  rotten  galleys  of  the  Serene  Re- 
public and  hear  the  resounding  under  the  hammer  of 
the  Italian  iron-clads, —  all  those  rough  and  healthy- 
things  called  up  an  impulse  of  gladness  that  burst 
forth  in  a  laugh  from  the  young  man's  heart.  He  and 
the  oarsman  laughed  together  under  the  tarred, 
patched  flank  of  the  fishing  boat,  that  had  the  living 
aspect  of  a  good  patient  beast  of  burden,  its  skin 
harsh  with  wrinkles,  excrescences,  and  scars. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  asked  the  elder  of  the 
fishermen,  bending  towards  the  sonorous  laughter 
his  bearded  and  weather-beaten  face  in  which  the 
only  light  things  were  a  few  grey  hairs,  and  the  grey 
eyes  under  the  eyelids  turned  up  by  the  salt  winds. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  master?  " 

The  mainsail  was  flapping  and  hissing  like  a  banner- 

"The  master  would  like  to  come  on  board," 
answered  Zorzi. 

The  mast  creaked  like  a  living  thing  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Let  him  come  up,  then.  Is  that  all  you  wish?" 
said  the  old  man,  simply,  and  he  turned  to  take  the 
stepladder. 

He  hooked  it  along  the  stern.  It  was  made  of  a 
few  worn  pegs,  and  a  single  double  knotted  rope  that 
was  also  worn.  But  that  too,  like  every  detail  of  the 
rough  boat,  seemed  to  Stelio  a  singularly  living 
thing.  On  putting  his  foot  upon  it,  his  thin  glossy 
shoes  embarrassed  him.  The  large  hard  hand  of  the 
sailor,  marked  with  blue  emblems,  helped  him  up, 
pulled  him  on  board  with  a  wrench. 


THE   EPIPHANY   OF  THE   FLAME     153 

"  The  grapes  and  the  figs,  Zorzi !  " 

The  oarsman  from  the  gondola  handed  him  the 
plate  of  vine-leaves. 

"  May  it  go  into  so  much  new  blood  for  you !  " 

"And  the  bread!" 

"  We  have  got  hot  bread,"  said  a  sailor,  lifting  up 
his  fine,  fair,  round  form,  "  just  fresh  from  the  oven." 

Hunger  certainly  would  give  it  a  delicious  flavour, 
would  find  all  the  goodness  of  the  grain  gathered 
there. 

"  Your  servant,  master,  and  fair  wind  to  you,"  cried 
the  oarsman,  saluting. 

"  Pull !  " 

The  Latin  sail  with  the  Lion  and  the  Book  swelled 
crimson.  The  boat  made  for  the  open,  turning  its 
prow  towards  San  Servolo.  The  shore  seemed  to 
arch  itself  as  if  to  push  it  off.  The  veins  of  water  in 
the  ship's  track  made  an  opaline  whirlpool  as  they 
mingled,  one  rosy,  one  blue-green,  then  they  changed  ; 
all  the  colours  alternated  as  if  the  wave  at  the  prow 
were  a  fluid  rainbow. 

"  Steer  to  the  right !  " 

The  boat  veered  with  all  its  might.  A  miracle 
caught  it;  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  pierced  the 
throbbing  sail  and  flashed  on  the  angels  above  the 
towers  of  San  Marco  and  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore. 
They  kindled  the  sphere  of  the  Fortuna  ;  their  light- 
ning crowned  the  five  mitres  of  the  Basilica.  The 
Sea-City  was  queen  on  the  water,  and  all  her  veils  were 
rent. 

"  Glory  to  the  miracle  !  "  A  superhuman  feeling 
of  power  and  freedom  swelled  the  heart  of  the  young 
man  as  the  wind    swelled  the  sail  that  was   being 


154  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

transfigured  for  him.  He  stood  in  the  crimson 
splendour  of  that  sail  as  in  the  splendour  of  his  own 
blood.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  mystery  of  so 
much  beauty  demanded  of  him  the  triumphal  act. 
The  consciousness  came  to  him  that  he  was  ready 
for  its  accomplishment.  "  To  create  with  joy !  ** 
And  the  world  was  his ! 


n 

THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE 


II 

THE   EMPIRE  OF    SILENCE 

**  In  Time  !  "  La  Foscarina  had  paused  for  a  long 
time  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  Academia  before  the 
old  woman  of  Francesco  Torbido, — that  wrinkled, 
toothless,  flabby,  yellowish  old  woman,  incapable  of 
either  weeping  or  smiling  any  longer,  that  kind  of 
human  ruin  far  worse  than  putrefaction,  that  kind 
of  earthly  parca  holding  between  her  fingers  in  place 
of  spindle,  thread,  or  scissors  the  placard  with  the 
warning. 

"  In  time !  "  she  repeated  to  the  open  air,  interrupt- 
ing the  silence  full  of  thoughts  during  which,  little 
by  little,  she  had  felt  her  heart  grow  heavy  and 
descend  to  its  depths  Hke  a  stone  in  dull  water. 
"  Stelio,  do  you  know  the  shut-up  house  in  the  Calle 
Gambara?  " 

"No,  which?" 

"  The  house  of  the  Countess  of  Glanegg." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  it. " 

"  Don't  you  know  the  story  of  the  beautiful  Aus- 
trian?" 

."  No,  Fosca,  tell  it  me." 

"  Shall  we  go  as  far  as  the  Calle  Gambara?  it  is  only 
a  few  steps." 

"  Let  us  go.** 


158  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

Side  by  side,  they  went  towards  the  shut-up  house. 
Stelio  hung  back  a  little  to  watch  the  actress,  to  see 
her  walking  in  the  dead  air.  His  warm  glance  em- 
braced her  whole  person,  —  the  line  of  the  shoulders 
falling  with  so  noble  a  grace,  the  free  flexible  waist 
on  the  powerful  limbs,  the  knees  that  moved  slightly 
among  the  folds  of  her  gown,  and  the  pale,  passionate 
face,  the  mouth  full  of  thirst  and  eloquence,  the  fore- 
head that  was  as  beautiful  as  a  beautiful  manly  brow, 
the  eyes  that  lengthened  out  from  among  the  eye- 
lashes, hazy  as  if  a  tear  were  continually  coming  up 
to  them  and  melting  there  unshed :  the  whole  of  the 
passionate  face  full  of  light  and  shadow,  of  love  and 
sorrow:  the  feverish  strength,  the  trembling  life. 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !  You  alone  please  me ; 
everything  in  you  pleases  me,"  he  said  suddenly, 
quite  low,  close  to  her  cheek,  almost  pressing  against 
her  as  he  fell  in  with  her  pace,  putting  his  arm  under 
her  arm,  unable  to  bear  the  thought  of  her  being 
seized  by  her  torment,  of  her  suffering  from  the  fear- 
ful admonishment. 

She  started,  stopped,  dropped  her  eyes,  turned 
white. 

"  Sweet  friend,"  she  said  in  so  low  a  voice  that 
the  words  seem  modulated  less  by  her  lips  than  by 
her  soul's  smile. 

All  her  trouble  was  flowing  away,  was  being 
changed  into  a  wave  of  tenderness  that  poured  its 
abundance  over  her  friend.  Her  infinite  gratitude 
gave  her  an  anxious  need  of  finding  some  great  gift 
for  him. 

"What  can  I  do,  what  can  I  do  for  you?    Tell 


me: 


1  *» 


THE   EMPIRE    OF   SILENCE  159 

She  thought  of  some  wonderful  test,  some  sudden 
strange  testimony  of  love.  "Let  me  serve,  let  me 
serve !  "  She  longed  to  possess  the  world  that  she 
might  offer  it  to  him. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  wish?  Tell  me,  what  can  I 
do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Love  me  !     Love  me  !  " 

"  My  love  is  sad,  my  poor  friend."  ^ 

"  It  is  perfect ;  it  fills  up  my  life." 

"  But  you  are  young." 

"  I  love  you  !  " 

"  You  should  possess  that  which  is  strong  like 
yourself." 

"  Every  day  you  exalt  my  hope  and  my  strength. 
The  tide  of  my  blood  seems  to  swell  when  I  am  near 
you  and  your  silence.  At  such  times,  things  are 
conceived  in  me  which  you  will  marvel  at  in  time. 
You  are  necessary  to  me." 

"  Do  not  say  so  !  " 

"  Each  day  you  bring  me  the  assurance  that  every 
promise  ever  made  to  me  will  be  kept." 

"  Yes,  you  will  go  on  to  the  end  of  your  own  beau- 
tiful destiny.  I  have  no  fear  for  you.  You  are  safe. 
No  danger  can  frighten  you.  No  obstacle  can  ever 
come  in  your  way.  Oh,  to  love  without  fearing! 
Whoever  loves,  fears.  I  do  not  fear  for  you. 
You  seem  to  me  invincible.  For  this  too,  I  thank 
you." 

She  was  showing  him  her  profound  faith  which,  like 
her  passion,  was  lucid  and  unlimited.  For  a  long 
time,  even  in  the  ardour  of  her  own  struggles  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  her  wandering  lot,  she  had  kept  her  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  his  young,  victorious  life  as  on  an 


i6o  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

ideal  form  born  of  the  purification  of  her  own  desire. 
More  than  once,  in  the  midst  of  the  sadness  of  her 
vain  loves  and  the  nobility  of  her  self-imposed  pro- 
hibition, she  had  thought:  "  Ah,  if  when  the  end  has 
come  of  all  my  courage  that  the  storm  has  hardened, 
if  at  the  end  of  all  the  clear  strong  things  that  sorrow 
and  revolt  have  laid  bare  in  the  depths  of  my  soul,  if 
with  all  that  is  best  in  me  I  could  one  day  shape  the 
wings  for  your  last,  highest  flight !  "  More  than  once 
her  melancholy  had  known  the  intoxication  of  an 
almost  heroic  presentiment.  At  such  times,  she  had 
subjected  her  soul  to  effort  and  constraint,  had  raised 
it  to  the  highest  moral  beauty  she  knew,  had  led  it 
towards  actions  that  were  pure  and  sorrowful,  only 
for  the  sake  of  deserving  that  which  she  hoped  and 
feared,  only  to  think  herself  worthy  of  offering  her 
servitude  to  him  who  was  so  impatient  of  conquest. 

And  now  a  sudden  violent  shock  of  Fate  had 
thrown  her  against  him  with  all  the  weight  of  her 
trembling  body  like  a  woman  full  of  desire.  She 
had  united  herself  to  him  with  the  sharpest  of  her 
blood,  she  had  watched  him  on  the  same  pillow, 
sleeping  the  heavy  sleep  of  love's  exhaustion,  she  had 
known  at  his  side  sudden  awakenings  agitated  by  cruel 
forebodings,  had  known  the  impossibility  of  closing 
her  tired  eyes  again,  lest  he  should  gaze  on  her  while 
she  slept,  lest  seeking  in  her  face  the  lines  of  the 
years  that  had  passed  he  should  be  disgusted  by  them 
and  pant  after  some  fresh,  young,  unconscious  life. 

"  Nothing  is  worth  what  you  give  me,"  said  Stelio, 
pressing  her  arm,  his  fingers  seeking  the  bare  wrist 
under  her  glove,  urged  by  an  uneasy  necessity  of 
feeling  the  pulse  of  that  devoted  life  and  the  beating 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  i6i 

of  that  faithful  heart  in  the  deserted  places  through 
which  they  walked,  under  the  squalid  smoke  that  sur- 
rounded them  and  deadened  the  noise  of  their  steps. 
"  Nothing  is  worth  this  certainty  of  never  again  being 
alone  until  death." 

"  Ah,  then  you  too  feel  it,  you  too  know  that  this 
is  for  ever ! "  she  cried  with  an  impulse  of  joy  as  she 
saw  the  triumph  of  her  love.  "  For  ever  !  Whatever 
may  happen,  wherever  your  fate  may  lead  you, 
wherever  you  may  want  me  to  serve  you,  Stelio,  be 
it  near  you  or  from  afar.  ,  .  ." 

A  confused  monotony  of  sound  was  spreading 
through  the  air.  She  recognised  it.  It  was  the 
chorus  of  sparrows  gathered  together  on  the  great 
dying  tree  in  the  garden  of  the  Countess  Glanegg. 
The  words  stopped  on  her  lips  ;  she  made  an  instinc- 
tive movement,  as  if  to  turn  back,  as  if  to  draw  her 
friend  away  in  some  other  direction. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  he  asked,  shaken  by  his 
companion's  brusque  movement  and  by  the  un- 
expected interruption  that  was  like  the  end  of  some 
music  or  enchantment. 

She  stopped.  She  smiled  her  slight  concealing 
smile.  "  In  Time."  "  I  tried  to  escape,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  cannot,  I  see." 

As  she  stood  there,  she  was  like  some  pale  flame. 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  I  was  taking  you  to  the 
closed  house,  Stelio." 

She  stood  there  in  the  ashen  daylight,  nerveless 
like  one  lost  in  a  desert. 

"  I  thought  it  was  somewhere  else  we  were  going. 
But  here  we  are.     In  time !  " 

She  stood  before  him  now  as  on  that  unforgettable 


i62  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

night,  when  she  had  implored  him,  "  Do  not  hurt 
me !  "  She  stood  there  clothed  in  her  sweet  tender 
soul,  that  was  so  easy  to  slay,  so  easy  to  destroy  and 
offer  up  like  a  bloodless  sacrifice. 

"  Let  us  go ;  let  us  go !  "  he  said,  trying  to  draw 
her  away.     "Let  us  go  elsewhere." 

"  One  cannot." 

"  Let  us  go  home,  let  us  go  home  and  light  a  fire, 
the  first  October  fire.  Let  me  spend  the  evening 
with  you,  Foscarina.  It  is  going  to  rain  before  long. 
It  would  be  so  sweet  to  linger  in  your  room,  to  talk 
or  be  silent  with  our  hands  in  each  other's.  .  .  . 
Come,  let  us  go." 

It  would  have  pleased  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms, 
to  nurse  her,  comfort  her,  to  feel  her  weeping  and 
to  drink  in  her  tears.  The  very  sound  of  his  own 
caressing  words  increased  his  tenderness.  Then, 
passionately,  of  all  her  loving  person  he  loved  the 
delicate  lines  that  went  from  her  eyes  to  her  temples, 
and  the  little  dark  veins  that  made  violets  of  her  eye- 
lids, and  the  undulation  of  her  cheek,  and  the  weary 
chin,  and  all  that  in  her  seemed  touched  by  the 
disease  of  Autumn  and  all  that  was  shadow  on  her 
passionate   face. 

"  Foscarina,  Foscarina  !  " 

Whenever  he  called  her  by  her  real  name,  his 
heart  would  beat  more  rapidly,  as  if  something  more 
profoundly  human  were  enterinir  into  his  love,  as  if 
all  of  a  sudden  their  whole  past  were  being  reknit 
to  the  figure  isolated  by  his  dream,  as  if  innumerable 
threads  were  reconnecting  all  its  fibres  to  implacable 
life. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  I " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  163 

"  But  why,  since  the  house  is  there.  Let  us  pass 
by  the  Calle  Gambara.  Don't  you  want  to  know 
the  story  of  the  Countess  Glanegg?  Look,  it  is  like 
a  convent !  " 

The  narrow  street  was  lonely;  like  a  hermitage 
path  it  was  greyish,  damp,  and  strewn  with  putrid 
leaves.  The  north-east  wind  had  brought  a  slow 
soft  mist  with  it  that  deadened  every  noise.  The 
monotonous  twitter  of  the  sparrows  sounded  now  and 
again  like  the  creaking  of  iron  or  wood. 

"  Behind  those  walls,  a  desolate  soul  is  surviving 
the  beauty  of  its  own  body,"  said  la  Foscarina, 
in  a  level  voice.  "  Look,  the  windows  are  closed,  the 
shutters  are  nailed,  the  doors  are  sealed.  Only  one 
is  left  open  for  the  servants  to  pass  in  and  out  of, 
and  through  it  the  dead  woman's  food  is  brought 
to  her  as  in  an  Egyptian  tomb.  It  is  an  extinguished 
body  that  those  servants  feed  and  wait  upon." 

The  almost  naked  tops  of  the  trees  that  overtopped 
the  cloistered  enclosure  seemed  smoking,  and  the 
sparrows,  more  numerous  on  the  branches  than  the 
diseased  leaves,  twittered  and  twittered  endlessly. 

"  Guess  what  her  name  is.  It  is  as  rare  and  beau- 
tiful a  name  as  if  you  had  discovered  it  yourself." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Radiana.     Radiana  is  the  name  of  the  prisoner." 

*'  But  whose  prisoner?  " 

"  The  prisoner  of  Time,  Stelio.  Time  watches  at 
her  doors,  as  in  the  old  prints,  with  his  hour-glass 
and  his  scythe.  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  an  allegory?  " 

A  child  passed  whistling.  When  he  saw  the  two 
gazing  at  the  closed  windows,  he  also  stopped  to 


i64  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

look  with  wide,  wondering,  curious  eyes.  They 
were  silent.  The  constant  twitter  of  the  sparrows 
could  not  overpower  the  silence  of  the  walls  and  the 
trees  and  the  sky:  its  monotony  sounded  in  their 
ears  like  the  roar  in  a  sea-shell,  and  through  it  they 
could  hear  the  silence  of  surrounding  things  and 
a  few  distant  voices.  The  hoarse  hoot  of  a  siren 
prolonged  itself  in  the  misty  distance,  becoming, 
little  by  little,  as  soft  as  a  flute  note.  It  ceased. 
The  little  boy  grew  tired  of  his  gazing :  nothing  visi- 
ble was  happening ;  the  windows  did  not  open ;  all 
remained  motionless.     He  went  off  at  a  run. 

They  heard  the  flight  of  his  little  naked  feet  patter- 
ing on  the  damp  stones  and  the  rotten  leaves. 

"  Well?  "  asked  Steho,  "  and  what  about  Radiana? 
You  have  not  told  me  yet  why  she  has  shut  herself  up. 
Tell  me  !     I  have  been  thinking  of  Soranza  Soranzo." 

"She  is  the  Countess  Glanegg,  a  lady  of  the  high- 
est Viennese  nobility,  and  perhaps  the  most  beauti- 
ful creature  that  I  have  ever  met.  Franz  Lenbach 
has  painted  her  in  the  armour  of  a  Valkyrie,  wearing 
the  four-winged  helmet.  Do  you  know  Franz  Len- 
bach? Have  you  ever  been  to  his  studio  in  the 
Palazzo  Borghese?" 

"  No,  never." 

"You  must  go  there  one  day,  and  you  must  ask 
him  to  show  you  that  portrait.  You  will  never 
again  forget  the  face  of  Radiana.  You  will  see  it 
unchanged  as  I  now  see  it  through  those  walls.  She 
has  chosen  to  remain  such  as  she  was  in  the  eyes 
of  those  who  once  saw  her  in  her  splendour.  Once 
on  some  too  bright  a  morning  when  she  noticed  that 
the  time  of  withering  had  come  for   her   too,  she 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  165 

resolved  to  take  leave  of  the  world  in  such  a  way 
that  man  should  not  stand  by,  watching  the  decay 
and  collapse  of  her  famous  beauty.  Perhaps  it  was 
her  sympathy  with  things  that  fall  to  pieces  and  go 
to  ruin  which  kept  her  in  Venice.  On  the  occasion 
of  her  leave-taking  she  gave  a  magnificent  entertain- 
ment at  which  she  appeared,  still  sovereignly  beauti- 
ful. Then,  with  her  servants,  she  retired  for  ever 
in  this  house  which  you  see,  in  this  walled  garden, 
to  await  the  end.  She  has  become  a  legendary 
figure.  It  is  said  that  no  mirror  is  allowed  in  her 
house  and  that  she  has  forgotten  her  own  face.  Her 
most  devoted  friends  and  her  nearest  relatives  are 
not  allowed  to  see  her.  How  does  she  live?  In  the 
company  of  what  thoughts?  What  is  the  art  that 
helps  her  while  away  the  time  of  waiting?  Is  her  soul 
in  a  state  of  grace  ?  " 

Every  pause  in  the  veiled  voice  that  questioned 
the  mystery  was  filled  with  a  melancholy  so  dense  as 
to  seem  almost  tangible ;  it  seemed  to  be  cadenced 
by  the  sobbing  rhythm  of  water  that  is  being  poured 
into  an  urn. 

"  Does  she  pray?  Does  she  contemplate?  Does 
she  weep?  Perhaps  she  has  become  inert  and  no 
longer  suffers,  as  an  apple  does  not  suffer  when  it 
shrivels  up  in  the  bottom  of  an  old  cupboard." 

The  woman  stopped.  Her  lips  curved  down- 
wards as  if  their  words  had  withered  them. 

"  What  if  she  were  suddenly  to  look  out  of  that 
window?"  said  Stelio,  his  ear  catching  something 
like  a  real  sensation,  like  the  grinding  of  hinges. 

Both  examined  the  interstices  of  the  nailed 
shutters. 


i66  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

"She  might  be  sitting  there  looking  at  us,"  he 
added  in  a  hushed  voice. 

The  shudder  of  the  one  communicated  itself  to  the 
other. 

They  were  leaning  against  the  opposite  wall,  un- 
willing to  move  a  step.  The  surrounding  inertia  was 
creeping  over  them ;  the  damp,  greyish  mist  grew 
thicker  as  it  swathed  them ;  the  confused  monotony 
of  the  birds'  twitter  stunned  them  like  certain  drugs 
that  stun  fever.  The  sirens  screeched  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  screeches,  dwindling  little  by  little  till 
they  became  as  gentle  as  flute  notes  in  the  limp  air, 
seemed  to  linger  like  the  discoloured  leaves  that  were 
leaving  their  branches  one  by  one  without  a  moan. 
How  long  it  took  for  the  falling  leaf  to  drop  to  the 
earth !  All  was  mist ;  all  was  slow  heaviness,  deser- 
tion, waste,  ashes. 


"  It  is  inevitable !  I  must  die,  dear  friend  ;  I  must 
die,"  the  woman  said  in  a  heart-rending  voice  after  a 
long  silence,  raising  her  face  from  the  cushion  where 
she  had  been  pressing  it  in  order  to  master  the  con- 
vulsion of  pain  and  pleasure  that  his  sudden,  furious 
caresses  had  given  her. 

She  saw  her  friend  sitting  apart  from  her  on  the 
other  divan  near  the  balcony,  in  the  attitude  of  one 
about  to  go  to  sleep,  his  eyes  half  shut,  and  his  head, 
which  was  thrown  back,  tinged  with  gold  by  the  light 
of  evening.  She  saw  the  red  mark,  like  a  small 
wound,  just  under  his  lip,  and  the  disordered  hair  on 
his  forehead.  She  felt  that  those  were  the  things  on 
which  her  desire  fed  and  rekindled  itself.      She  felt 


THE  EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  167 

that  her  eyelids  hurt  her  pupils  the  more  she  looked, 
that  her  gaze  burnt  her  eyelashes ;  that  the  incurable 
evil  entered  through  her  pupils,  spreading  over  all 
her  withered  body.  Lost,  lost,  henceforth  she  was 
lost  without  remedy. 

"  Die  ?  "  her  friend  said  weakly,  without  opening  his 
eyes,  without  moving,  as  if  speaking  from  the  depths 
of  his  drowsiness  and  his  melancholy. 

She  noticed  that  the  little  open  wound  moved 
under  his  lip  when  he  spoke. 

"  Before  you  hate  me." 

He  opened  his  eyes,  raised  himself  up,  held  out  his 
hand  towards  her  as  if  to  prevent  her  from  saying 
any  more. 

"  Ah,  why  do  you  torment  yourself?  " 

She  was  almost  livid ;  her  loosened  hair  fell  in 
streaks  over  her  face ;  she  seemed  consumed  by  a 
poison  that  corroded  her,  bent  as  if  her  soul  had 
broken  through  its  flesh,  terrible  and  miserable. 

**  What  are  you  doing  with  me  ;  what  are  we  doing 
with  each  other  ?"  the  woman  said  in  her  anguish. 

They  had  struggled  that  day:  the  breath  of  the 
one  mingling  with  the  other's  breath,  one  heart 
against  the  other  heart;  their  union  had  been  like  a 
scuffle ;  they  had  felt  the  taste  of  blood  in  the  mois- 
ture of  their  mouths.  All  at  once  they  had  yielded 
to  a  sudden  rush  of  desire  as  to  a  blind  necessity  of 
destroying  each  other.  He  had  shaken  her  life  as 
if  to  tear  it  up  by  its  most  hidden  roots.  They 
had  felt  a  sharpness  of  teeth  hiding  in  their  cruel 
kisses. 

"  I  love  you !  '* 

**  Not  as  I  would  wish ;  this  is  not  what  I  want** 


i68  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

"  You  excite  me.  Suddenly,  the  fury  seizes 
me.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  like  hatred." 

"  No,  no ;  don't  say  that." 

*'  You  shake  me  and  rend  me  as  if  you  wanted  to 
make  an  end  of  me." 

"  You  blind  me.     After  that  I  know  nothing." 

"  What  is  it  that  agitates  you  ?  What  do  you  see 
in  me?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  Don't  torment  yourself.  I  love  you !  This  is 
the  love.  .  .  ." 

"That  condemns  me!  I  must  die  of  it.  Give 
me  once  more  the  name  you  used  to  give  me." 

"  You  are  mine !  I  have  you  now  and  will  not 
lose  you." 

"  But  you  must  lose  me." 

"But  why?  I  cannot  understand  you.  What  is 
this  madness  of  yours?  Does  my  desire  offend  you? 
But  you,  do  you  perhaps  not  desire  me  too?  Are 
you  not  seized  by  the  same  fury  of  possessing  me 
and  of  being  possessed?  Your  teeth  were  chattering 
before  I  even  touched  you.  .  .  ." 

His  intolerance  was  burning  into  her  more  deeply, 
was  poisoning  her  wound.  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Her  heart  had  become  rigid  and  was 
beating  in  her  breast  like  a  hammer,  and  the  hard 
blows  of  the  hammer  were  reverberated  in  her  head. 

"  Look !  " 

He  touched  his  lip  where  it  hurt  him,  pressed 
the  small  wound,  held  out  to  the  woman  his  finger 
tinged  with  the  drop  of  blood  that  had  oozed  from  it. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  169 

She  rose  to  her  feet  quickly,  writhing  as  if  he  had 
prodded  her  with  a  red-hot  iron.  She  opened  her 
eyes  wide  upon  him  as  if  to  devour  him  with  her 
gaze,  her  nostrils  quivered,  a  fearful  force  heaved 
in  her,  her  whole  body,  in  vibrating,  felt  itself  naked 
under  her  dress  as  if  the  folds  no  longer  adhered  to 
it.  Her  face,  that  had  looked  up  from  the  hollow 
of  her  hands  as  from  a  blind  mask,  burnt  darkly 
like  a  fire  that  has  no  rays.  She  was  most  beautiful, 
most  terrible,  and  most  miserable. 

"  Ah,  Perdita,  Perdita  I  " 

Never,  never,  never  will  that  man  forget  that  step 
which  Lust  moved  towards  him,  the  way  in  which  it 
drew  near  him,  the  swift  dumb  wave  that  overthrew  it- 
self on  his  breast,  that  wrapped  him  round,  that  drank 
him  in,  that  gave  him  for  a  moment  the  fear  and 
the  joy  of  suffering  a  divine  violence,  of  dissolving 
in  a  kind  of  warm,  deadly  moisture,  as  if  the  whole 
of  the  woman's  body  had  suddenly  become  one 
single  aspiring  mouth  that  drew  him  in  and  by 
which  he  was  entirely  absorbed. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  forgetting  the  world  and  his 
glory,  A  dar':  sacred  depth  opened  in  him  like  a 
temple.  His  spirit  became  motionless  and  opaque, 
but  all  his  senses  aspired  after  the  transcending  of 
their  human  limits,  aspired  to  the  joy  that  is  beyond 
the  human  impediment,  became  sublime,  capable  of 
penetrating  the  remotest  mysteries,  of  discovering 
the  most  recondite  secrets,  of  drawing  one  pleasure 
from  another  like  one  harmony  from  another  har- 
mony, became  marvellous  instruments,  infinite  vir- 
tues, realities  sure  as  death.  All  was  vanishing  like 
a   mist,   the    energies    and    the   aspirations   of    the 


I/O  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

universe  seemed  converging  in  that  mere  union  of 
sexes ;  it  was  consecrated  by  heaven,  made  rehgious 
by  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  accompanied  by  the 
roar  of  death. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  room,  that  had 
grown  dark  ;  through  the  open  balcony  he  saw  the 
distant  sky,  the  trees,  the  cupolas,  the  towers,  the 
extremity  of  the  lagoon  with  the  face  of  the  twi- 
light bending  over  it,  and  the  Euganean  Hills,  that 
were  quiet  and  blue  like  the  folded  wings  of  earth 
resting  in  the  evening.  He  saw  the  forms  of  silence 
and  the  silent  form  of  the  woman  adhering  to  him  like 
the  bark  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree. 

The  woman  was  lying  with  all  her  weight  upon  him, 
holding  and  covering  him  in  her  embrace,  her  fore- 
head pressed  against  his  shoulder,  her  face  suffocat- 
ingly hidden ;  she  was  clasping  him  with  a  hold  that 
did  not  loosen,  that  was  indissoluble,  like  the  grip  of 
a  corpse's  stiffened  arms  round  a  living  person.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  could  never  loosen  that  clasp,  as  if 
she  could  never  again  be  detached  from  him  except  by 
the  cutting  off  of  her  arms.  He  felt,  in  that  encircling 
clasp,  the  solidity  and  the  tenacity  of  the  bones, 
while  on  his  bosom  and  along  his  legs  he  felt  the 
soddenness  of  the  body  that  trembled  upon  him  now 
and  then  with  a  quiver  as  of  water  running  over 
gravel.  Indefinite  things  passed  in  that  tremble  of 
water,  numberless  continual  things  that  rose  from  the 
depths  and  descended  from  afar ;  ever  thicker,  more 
impure,  they  passed  and  passed  like  a  turbid  stream 
of  life.  He  acknowledged  once  more  that  his  sharp 
desire  was  nourished  by  that  very  impurity,  by  that 
unknown  encumbrance,  by  those  traces  of  lost  loves, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  171 

by  all  that  bodily  sadness  and  unspeakable  despair. 
He  owned  once  more  that  it  was  the  phantoms  of 
other  gestures  which  spurred  his  gesture  of  longing 
for  the  wandering  woman.  It  was  because  of  her 
that  he  was  suffering  now  and  because  of  himself; 
and  he  felt  her  suffer,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  his  the 
same  as  fuel  belongs  to  the  fire  that  consumes  it. 
And  again  he  heard  the  words  that  had  come  unex- 
pectedly after  their  fury  had  passed :  "  It  is  inevi- 
table:  I   must  die." 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  the  open  again,  saw  the 
gardens  darkening,  the  houses  being  lit  up,  a  star 
springing  from  the  sky's  mourning,  the  glitter  of  a 
long  pale  sword  at  the  bottom  of  the  lagoon,  the 
mountains  melting  into  the  fragments  of  night,  the 
distance  stretching  out  towards  regions  rich  with 
unknown  possessions.  There  were  actions  to  be 
accomplished  in  the  world,  conquests  to  be  followed 
up,  dreams  to  exalt,  destinies  to  enforce,  enigmas 
to  attempt,  laurels  to  be  gathered.  There  were 
paths  down  there,  mysterious  meetings  that  could 
not  be  foreseen.  Some  veiled  joy  might  be  pass- 
ing somewhere,  with  nobody  to  meet  or  recognise 
it.  Was  there  not  perhaps  an  equal,  a  brother, 
living  somewhere  in  the  world  at  that  hour,  or  a 
distant  enemy  on  whose  brow  the  lightning-like 
inspiration  from  which  the  eternal  work  is  born  was 
about  to  descend  after  a  day  of  troubled  expecta- 
tion. Some  one,  perhaps,  at  that  hour  had  finished 
some  great  work,  or  had  found  at  last  some  heroic 
reason  of  living;  but  he, —  he  lay  there  in  the  prison 
of  his  body  under  the  weight  of  the  desperate 
woman.     Her  magnificent  fate,  full  of  sorrow  and  of 


172  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

power,  had  come  to  break  against  him  as  against  a 
rock.  What  was  Donatella  Arvale  doing?  What 
was  she  thinking  of  in  the  evening  hour  on  her 
Tuscan  hill  in  her  solitary  house,  near  her  demented 
father?  Was  she  tempering  her  will  for  some  con- 
templated struggle?  Was  she  sounding  her  secret? 
Was  she  pure? 

He  became  inert  under  the  woman's  clasp,  his 
arms  hindered  by  the  rigid  circle.  Repulsion  filled 
his  being,  A  melancholy  as  strong  as  pain  thick- 
ened round  his  heart;  and  the  silence  seemed 
expecting  a  cry.  The  veins  throbbed  painfully  in 
his  limbs,  that  had  grown  torpid  under  her  weight. 
Little  by  little  the  clasp  gave  way  as  if  life  were 
failing  it.  The  heart-rending  words  came  back  to 
his  soul.  A  funereal  image  appeared,  assailing  him 
with  a  sudden  frightened  uneasiness.  And  neverthe- 
less he  did  not  move  nor  speak  nor  attempt  to  dis- 
sipate the  cloud  of  anguish  that  had  gathered  over 
them  both.  He  remained  motionless.  He  lost  the 
knowledge  of  places  and  the  measure  of  time.  He 
saw  himself  and  the  woman  in  the  midst  of  an  infi- 
nite plain,  where  half-scorched,  scattered  grasses  grew 
under  a  white  sky.  They  were  waiting,  waiting  for 
a  voice  to  call  them,  for  a  voice  that  should  raise 
them  up.  ...  A  confused  dream  was  born  in  his 
torpor,  fluctuated,  changed,  turned  sad  in  the  night- 
mare. Breathlessly  he  seemed  to  be  climbing  a 
steep  hillside  with  his  companion;  and  her  more 
than  human  breathlessness  increased  his  own.  .  .  . 

He  started,  re-opening  his  eyes  at  the  clang  of  a 
bell.  It  was  the  bell  of  San  Simeone  Profeta,  and 
it  was  so  near  that  it  seemed  to  be  ringing  in  the 


THE  EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  173 

very  room.  The  metallic  sound  pierced  like  a 
rapier. 

"Had  you,  too,  gone  to  sleep?"  he  asked  the 
woman,  finding  her  unresisting  like  one  already  dead. 

And  he  raised  one  hand,  passed  it  lightly  over  her 
hair,  stroking  her  cheeks  and  chin. 

She  burst  into  sobs,  as  if  that  hand  were  breaking 
her  heart.  And  she  lay  sobbing  on  his  breast  with- 
out dying  there. 


**  I  have  a  heart,  Stelio,"  said  the  woman,  looking 
him  in  the  eyes  with  a  painful  effort  that  made  her 
lips  tremble  as  if  she  had  overcome  fierce  shyness  in 
order  to  say  those  words.  "  I  suffer  from  a  heart 
that  is  alive  in  me,  —  ah,  Stelio,  alive  and  eager  and 
full  of  anguish  as  you  will  never  know.  .  .  ." 

She  smiled  her  thin,  concealing  smile,  hesitated, 
held  out  her  hand  towards  a  bunch  of  violets,  took 
it  up  and  raised  it  to  her  nostrils ;  her  eyelids 
dropped ;  her  forehead  was  bare  between  her  hair 
and  the  flowers,  marvellously  beautiful  and  sad. 

"  Sometimes  you  wound  it,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  her  breath  lost  in  the  violets.  "  You  are  cruel 
to  it  sometimes.  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  humble,  sweet-smelling  flowers 
were  helping  her  to  confess  her  grief,  veiling  still 
further  her  timid  reproach  to  her  friend.  She  was 
silent;  he  bowed  his  head.  They  could  hear  the 
crackling  of  the  wood  on  the  fire-dogs ;  they  could 
hear  the  even  beat  of  the  rain  in  the  mourning 
garden. 

"  A  great  thirst  for  kindness ;  ah,  you  will  never 


174  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

know  what  a  thirst  it  is !  ...  For  that  kindness, 
dear  sweet  friend,  that  deep  true  kindness,  knowing 
not  how  to  speak,  but  understanding,  knowing  how 
to  give  all  in  a  single  look,  in  a  little  movement, 
strong  and  sure,  always  rising  up  between  us  and  life 
that  stains  and  seduces  us  .  .  .  Do  you  know  it?  " 

Her  voice,  alternately  firm  and  vacillating,  was  so 
warm  with  inner  light,  so  filled  with  the  revelation 
of  a  soul,  that  the  young  man  felt  it  passing  through 
his  blood,  less  like  a  sound  than  a  spiritual  essence. 

"  In  you,  in  you,  I  know  it." 

He  took  her  hands  that  were  in  her  lap  holding 
the  violets,  and,  bending  over  them,  submissively 
kissed  them  both.  Then  he  remained  at  her  feet  in 
the  same  attitude  of  submission.  The  delicate  per- 
fume made  his  own  tenderness  more  delicate.  The 
rain  and  the  fire  spoke  in  the  pause. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  sure  of  you?"  the  woman 
asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

"  Have  you  not  watched  me  sleeping  on  your 
heart?"  he  answered,  his  tone  all  at  once  changed 
by  a  new  emotion,  because  he  had  seen  in  that 
question  the  bare  soul  rise  up  and  stand  before 
him,  had  felt  his  secret  need  of  believing  and  con- 
fiding discovered. 

"Yes,  but  what  is  that?  The  sleep  of  youth  is 
calm  on  any  pillow.     You  are  young.  .  .  ." 

"  I  love  you  and  believe  in  you.  I  have  given 
myself  up  entirely.  You  are  my  companion  and 
your  hand  is  strong." 

He  had  seen  the  well-known  anguish  disturb  the 
lines  of  the  dear  face,  and  his  voice  had  trembled 
with  love. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF    SILENCE  175 

"  Kindness  !  "  said  the  woman,  with  a  light  move- 
ment, caressing  the  hair  on  his  temples.  "  You  know 
how  to  be  kind ;  the  necessity  is  in  you,  dear  friend,  of 
comforting.  But  a  fault  has  been  committed,  and  it 
must  be  atoned  for.  Once  I  thought  that  I  could 
do  the  highest  and  the  most  humble  things  for  you, 
and  now  it  seems  to  me  there  is  only  one  thing  I  can 
do,  —  to  go  away,  disappear,  leave  you  free  with  your 
fate." 

He  interrupted  her,  lifting  himself  up  and  taking 
the  dear  face  in  his  hands. 

"  This  thing  I  can  do,  which  even  love  could  not," 
she  said  in  her  low  voice,  turning  pale  and  looking 
at  him  as  she  had  never  done  before. 

He  felt  himself  to  be  holding  his  soul  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand,  the  image  of  a  living  spring  infinitely 
precious  and  beautiful. 

"  Foscarina,  Foscarina,  my  soul,  my  life !  Yes, 
yes,  more  than  love,  I  know  that  you  can  give  me 
more  than  love;  and  nothing  is  worth  to  me  that 
which  you  can  give,  and  no  other  offer  could  comfort 
me  for  not  having  you  at  my  side  on  the  way. 
Believe,  believe !  I  have  repeated  this  to  you  so 
many  times,  don't  you  remember?  also  when  you 
were  not  entirely  mine,  even  when  the  prohibition 
still  kept  us  apart.  .  ,  ." 

Holding  her  closely  in  that  same  position,  he 
bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  passionately  on  the 
lips. 

She  shivered  in  all  her  bones ;  the  cold  stream  was 
passing  over  her,  freezing  her. 

"  No,  no  more,"  she  begged,  turning  white. 

She  moved  her  friend  away  from  her,  unable  to 


176  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

restrain  the  panting  in  her  breast.  As  in  a  dream, 
she  bent  down  to  pick  up  the  violets  that  had 
fallen. 

"  The  prohibition ! "  she  said,  after  an  interval  oi 
silence. 

A  dull  roar  came  from  a  log  that  was  struggling 
with  the  bite  of  the  flame ;  the  rain  was  pouring  on  the 
trees  and  stones.  Now  and  then  the  sound  imitated 
the  agitation  of  the  sea,  conjuring  up  hostile  places, 
inhospitable  distances,  beings  that  wandered  under 
inclement  skies. 

"  Why  have  we  violated  it?" 

Stelio's  eyes  were  intent  on  the  mobile  splendour 
of  the  hearth ;  in  his  flat,  open  hands  the  marvellous 
sensation  was  being  continued,  the  vestige  of  the 
miracle  still  dwelt  there,  the  trace  of  that  human 
countenance  across  the  miserable  pallor  of  which  a 
wave  of  sublime  beauty  had  passed. 

"Why?"  repeated  the  woman,  sorrowfully.  "Ah, 
confess,  confess  that  you,  too,  before  the  blind  fury 
took  us  and  carried  us  both  away  that  night,  —  you  too 
felt  that  all  was  about  to  be  lost  and  devastated,  you, 
too,  felt  that  we  could  not  yield  if  we  wanted  to  save 
the  good  that  was  born  of  us,  to  save  that  strong, 
inebriating  thing  that  to  me  had  seemed  the  only 
valuable  one  of  my  life.  Confess,  Stelio ;  tell  me  the 
truth,  I  can  almost  remind  you  of  the  moment  when 
the  better  voice  spoke  to  you.  Was  it  not  on  the 
water  as  we  went  towards  my  house,  having  Donatella 
with  us?" 

She  had  hesitated  a  moment  before  pronouncing 
that  name,  and  afterwards  she  had  felt  an  almost 
physical  bitterness  descending   from  her  lips,  as  if 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  177 

its  syllables  had  become  poison  to  her.  In  her 
suffering  she  waited  for  her  friend's  answer. 

"  I  can  no  longer  look  back,  Fosca,"  he  answered. 
"  Nor  would  I.  I  have  lost  no  good  thing  that  was 
mine.  I  like  your  soul  to  have  a  mouth  that  is  heavy, 
and  it  pleases  me  to  feel  that  your  blood  flies  from 
your  face  when  I  touch  you,  and  you  know  by  that 
touch  that  I  desire  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Be  silent,  be  silent !  "  she  implored.  "  Do  not 
unnerve  me  always.  Let  me  speak  of  my  trouble 
to  you.     Why  will  you  not  help  me  ?  " 

She  drew  back  a  little  among  her  cushions,  shrink- 
ing as  if  his  had  been  an  act  of  brutal  violence  and, 
in  order  not  to  look  at  her  lover,  looking  fixedly 
into  the  fire. 

"  More  than  once  I  have  seen  something  in  your 
eyes  which  has  filled  me  with  horror,"  she  at  last 
managed  to  say,  with  an  effort  that  made  her  voice 
hoarse. 

He  started,  but  dared  not  contradict  her. 

"  With  horror,"  she  repeated,  more  clearly,  im- 
placable towards  herself,  having  conquered  her  fear 
and  taken  hold  of  her  courage. 

Both  of  them,  with  naked  throbbing  hearts,  now 
stood  before  the  truth. 

"  Without  weakness,"  the  woman  spoke  on. 

"  The  first  time,  it  was  that  night,  out  there  in  the 
garden.  ...  I  know  what  it  all  was  that  you  were 
seeing  in  me.  All  the  mud  over  which  I  have  walked, 
all  the  infamy  I  have  trodden  under  foot,  all  the  im- 
purity which  has  filled  me  with  repugnance.  .  .  .  Ah, 
you  could  not  have  confessed  the  visions  that  were 
kindling  your  fever !     Your   eyes  were   cruel,   and 


178  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

your  mouth  was  convulsed.  When  you  felt  that  you 
were  wounding  me  you  took  pity.  .  .  .  But  since,  but 
since  .  .  ." 

A  blush  had  covered  her,  her  voice  had  become 
impetuous  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"  To  have  nourished  for  years,  with  all  that  was 
best  in  me,  a  feeling  of  unlimited  devotion  and  ad- 
miration ;  to  have  received  when  near  you  and  from 
afar,  in  joy  and  in  sadness,  every  consolation  offered 
to  mankind  by  your  poetry  with  an  act  of  the  purest 
gratitude:  and  to  have  anxiously  awaited  other, 
ever  greater  and  more  consoling  gifts;  to  have  be- 
lieved in  the  great  strength  of  your  genius  from  its 
very  dawn  and  never  to  have  detached  my  eyes  from 
your  ascension ;  and  to  have  accompanied  it  with  a 
wish  that  for  years  has  been  like  my  morning  and 
evening  prayer;  to  have  silently,  fervently  gone  on 
with  the  continual  effort  of  imparting  some  beauty 
and  some  harmony  to  my  spirit,  that  it  might  be  less 
unworthy  of  approaching  yours ;  on  the  stage  before 
an  ardent  audience,  to  have  so  many  times  pro- 
nounced some  immortal  words,  thinking  of  those 
which  perhaps  one  day  you  would  elect  to  give  to 
the  crowd  through  my  lips;  to  have  worked  un- 
ceasingly; to  have  always  sought  after  simpler  and 
more  intense  art;  to  have  aspired  to  perfection 
continually  for  fear  of  not  pleasing  you,  of  appear- 
ing too  unequal  to  your  dream ;  to  have  loved  my 
fitful  glory  only  because  it  might  one  day  have 
served  your  own ;  to  have  hastened  on  the  newest  of 
your  revelations  with  unshakable  faith,  that  I  might 
offer  myself  to  you  as  an  instrument  of  victory  before 
the  hour  of  my  own  decay,  and  to  have  defended  this 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  179 

idealism  in  my  hidden  soul  against  all  and  every- 
thing, against  all  and  against  myself:  yes,  more 
harshly,  more  bravely  against  my  own  self;  to  have 
made  of  you  my  melancholy,  my  unyielding  hope, 
my  heroic  test,  the  symbol  of  all  things  good,  strong, 
free,  ah,  Stelio,  Stelio  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  a  moment,  suffocated  by  that  memory 
as  by  a  new  shame . 

"...  and  to  have  reached  that  dawn,  to  have 
seen  you  leaving  my  house  in  that  way,  in  that  hor- 
rible dawn." 

She  turned  even  whiter,  all  the  blood  leaving  her 
face. 

**  Do  you  remember?  " 

"  I  was  happy,  happy,  happy,"  he  cried  out 
to  her  in  a  choked  voice,  convulsed  to  the  very 
depths. 

"No,  no;  don't  you  remember?  You  rose  from 
my  bed  as  from  the  bed  of  a  courtesan,  replete,  after 
a  few  hours'  violent  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  wrong;  you  deceive  yourself!  " 

"  Confess,  tell  me  the  truth ;  only  through  truth 
can  we  yet  hope  to  save  ourselves." 

"  I  was  happy.  My  whole  heart  was  open ;  I  was 
dreaming  and  hoping.  I  felt  myself  rising  to  new 
life.  .  .  /' 

"Yes,  yes;  happy  because  you  were  breathing 
freely  again,  because  yoif  found  yourself  still  young 
in  the  wind  and  the  daylight.  Ah,  you  had  mingled 
too  many  acrid  things  with  your  caresses,  and  there 
was  too  much  poison  in  your  pleasure.  What  did 
you  see  in  her  who  had  known  agony  in  her  renunci- 
ation so  many  times,  —  and  you  know  it,  — yes,  agony, 


i8o  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

rather  than  break  through  the  prohibition  necessary 
to  the  life  of  the  dream  that  she  was  dragging  with 
her  in  her  endless  wandering.  Tell  me,  what  was  it 
you  saw  in  me  if  not  a  corrupt  creature,  a  body  full 
of  lust  and  remains  of  adventurous  passions,  a  wan- 
dering actress  who,  on  her  bed,  as  on  the  stage, 
belongs  to  all  and  to  none  .  .  /* 

"  Foscarina !  Foscarina  !  " 

He  threw  himself  upon  her,  overcome  by  her  words, 
and  closed  her  lips  with  his  trembling  hand. 

"  No,  no ;  don't  speak  like  that.  Be  silent !  You 
are  mad;  you  are  mad.  .  .  ." 

"The  horror  of  it !  "  she  murmured,  falling  back  on 
her  cushions  as  if  about  to  lose  consciousness,  wearied 
by  the  effort,  wan  under  the  flood  of  bitterness  that 
had  gurgled  up  from  her  heart's  depths. 

But  her  eyes  remained  open  and  dilated,  motion- 
less like  two  crystals,  hard  as  if  they  had  no  lashes, 
fixed  upon  him.  They  prevented  him  from  speak- 
ing, from  denying  or  diminishing  the  truth  they  had 
discovered.  After  a  few  seconds  he  found  them 
becoming  intolerable.  He  closed  them  with  his 
fingers,  as  one  closes  those  of  the  dead.  She  saw 
the  gesture,  which  was  one  of  infinite  melancholy; 
felt  those  fingers  touching  her  lids  as  only  love  and 
pity  can  touch.  The  bitterness  disappeared;  the 
harsh  knot  melted  away ;  her  lashes  moistened.  She 
held  out  her  arms,  twined  them  round  his  neck,  and 
supporting  herself  by  them,  raised  herself  slightly. 
She  seemed  i:o  be  drawing  herself  together  within 
herself,  to  have  become  light  and  weak  once  more 
and  full  of  silent  prayer. 

*'  So  I  must  go  away,"  she  sighed,  her  voice  mois« 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  i8i 

tened  by  her  heart's  weeping.  *'  Is  there  no  help  for 
it?     Is  there  no  forgiveness?  " 

*'  I  love  you,"  said  her  lover. 

She  freed  one  arm  and  held  out  her  open  hand  to 
the  fire,  as  if  for  an  exorcism.  Then  she  locked  the 
young  man  again  in  a  close  embrace. 

"  Yes,  yet  for  a  little  while,  yet  for  a  little  while ! 
Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little  more !  Then  I  will  go 
away,  I  will  go  away,  and  die  somewhere  far  away 
on  a  stone  under  some  tree.  Let  me  stay  with  you 
a  little  longer." 

"  I  love  you,"  said  her  lover. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  blind  undaunted  forces  of  life 
were  whirling  over  their  heads  and  above  their 
embrace.  Because  they  felt  them  and  were  terrified 
by  them,  they  held  each  other  more  closely;  and  from 
the  clasp  of  their  two  bodies,  a  good  and  an  evil  that 
were  heart-rqftiding,  confused  and  intermingled  and 
no  longer  separable,  were  born  for  their  souls.  In  the 
silence,  the  voices  of  the  elements  spoke  their  obscure 
language,  which  was  like  an  uncomprehended  answer 
to  their  mute  questioning.  The  fire  and  the  rain, 
near  them  and  afar,  conversed,  answered,  narrated. 
Little  by  little  these  things  attracted  the  Spirit  of  the 
Life-giver,  drew  it  away,  mastered  it,  dragged  it  into 
the  world  of  innumerable  myths  that  was  born  of 
their  eternity.  With  a  sensation  that  was  deep  and 
real  he  heard  the  resonance  of  the  two  melodies 
expressing  the  iniimate  essence  of  the  two  elementary 
wills :  the  two  marvellous  melodies  that  he  had  found 
and  was  going  to  weave  into  the  symphonic  web  of 
his  new  tragedy.  The  stabs  of  pain  and  the  vi- 
brations of  anxiety  suddenly  ceased  as  if  for  a  happy 


1 82  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

truce,  for  an  interval  of  enchantment  in  the  mist. 
The  woman's  arms,  too,  were  loosened  as  if  obey- 
ing some  mysterious  liberating  command. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
if  she  were  repeating  the  words  of  a  condemnation 
actually  heard  by  her  in  the  same  way  as  Stelio  had 
heard  the  great  melodies. 

She  leaned  forward,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hand 
and  her  elbow  on  her  knee;  and  she  remained  in 
ihat  attitude  staring  fixedly  into  the  fire  with  a  frown 
between  her  brows. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  he  returned  to  his  uneasiness. 
The  truce  had  passed  too  quickly,  but  in  it  his  spirit 
had  been  turned  towards  his  work,  and  a  tumult  that 
was  like  impatience  had  stayed  behind  with  him.  That 
uneasiness  now  seemed  useless  to  him,  the  woman's 
anguish  seemed  importunate,  since  he  loved  her  and 
desired  her,  and  his  caresses  were  ardent,  and  both 
were  free,  and  the  place  of  their  dwelling  was  favour- 
able to  their  dreams  and  their  pleasures.  He  longed 
to  find  a  sudden  means  of  snapping  the  iron  band 
that  held  her,  of  lifting  her  sad  mists,  of  leading  his 
friend  back  to  joy.  He  asked  of  his  own  spirit  of 
grace  some  delicate  invention  to  mellow  the  afflicted 
one  and  win  her  back  to  a  smile.  But  he  no  longer 
possessed  the  spontaneous  melancholy,  the  trembling 
pity  that  had  given  his  fingers  so  soft  a  touch  when 
he  closed  the  despairing  eyes.  His  instinct  sug- 
gested nothing  more  than  a  sensual  act,  the  caress 
that  deadens  the  soul,  the  kiss  that  drowns  thought. 

He  hesitated,  looked  at  her.  She  was  sitting  in  the 
same  bent  attitude,  her  chin  leaning  on  her  hand,  her 
forehead  puckered.     The  fire  lit  up  her  face  and  hair 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  183 

in  its  glad  leaping;  the  brow  was  as  beautiful  as  a  fine 
manly  brow ;  there  was  something  wild  in  the  natural 
fold  and  the  tawny  lights  of  the  thick  locks  where  they 
waved  back  from  the  temples,  —  something  fierce  and 
rough,  that  reminded  one  of  the  wing  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at?"  she  said,  feeling  his 
attention.     "Are  you  discovering  a  white  hair?" 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  before  her,  flexible  and 
caressing. 

"  You  are  beautiful  in  my  eyes.  In  you  I  always 
find  something  that  pleases  me,  Foscarina.  I  was 
watching  the  strange  wave  of  your  hair  just  here;  it 
is  not  made  by  a  comb,  but  by  the  storm." 

He  insinuated  his  sensual  hands  through  her  thick 
locks.  She  closed  her  eyes,  seized  by  the  usual  chill, 
dominated  by  the  terrible  power ;  was  his  like  a  thing 
that  can  be  held  in  the  hand,  like  a  ring  on  a  finger, 
like  a  glove,  like  a  garment,  like  a  word  that  can  be 
spoken  or  not,  like  a  wine  that  can  be  drunk  or  spilt 
on  the  ground. 

"  You  are  beautiful  as  I  see  you.  When  you  shut 
your  eyes  thus,  I  feel  that  you  are  mine  to  your  last, 
last  depths,  lost  in  me,  like  the  soul  is  confused  with 
the  body.  One  only  life,  mine  and  yours.  .  .  .  Ah, 
I  cannot  tell  you.  .  .  .  The  whole  of  your  face  turns 
pale  within  me.  ...  I  feel  the  love  that  is  in  your 
veins  and  in  your  very  hair  rising,  rising.  I  see  it 
overflow  from  under  your  eyelids.  .  .  .  When  your 
eyelids  beat,  it  seems  that  they  must  throb  like  my 
blood,  and  that  the  shadow  of  your  eyelashes  must 
reach  to  the  innermost  part  of  my  heart." 

She  listened  in  the  darkness  where  the  red  vibra- 
tion  of  the  flame  reached   her  through   the   living 


1 84  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

tissue.  And  now  and  then  it  seemed  that  his  voice 
came  from  far  away  and  was  not  speaking  to  her,  but 
to  another ;  that  she  was  listening  surreptitiously  to 
a  lover's  outpouring,  that  she  was  torn  by  jealousy, 
stricken  by  the  flashes  of  a  desire  to  kill,  invaded  by 
a  spirit  of  vengeance  that  thirsted  for  blood,  and  that 
nevertheless  her  body  remained  motionless  and  that 
her  hands  were  hanging  beside  her,  full  of  heavy 
torpor,  harmless  and  powerless. 

"  You  are  my  joy,  and  you  are  my  awakening. 
There  is  an  awakening  power  in  you  of  which  you 
yourself  are  unconscious.  The  simplest  of  your  acts 
is  enough  to  reveal  some  truth  to  me  that  I  ignored, 
and  love  is  like  the  intellect,  —  shining  in  the  measure 
of  the  truths  which  it  discovers.  Why,  why  do  you 
regret?  Nothing  is  destroyed ;  nothing  is  lost.  We 
were  meant  to  unite  our  two  selves,  just  as  we  have 
joined  them,  so  that  together  we  might  rise  towards 
joy.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should  be  free  and 
happy  in  the  truth  of  your  entire  love  in  order  to 
create  the  work  of  beauty  that  is  expected  by  so 
many.  I  have  need  of  your  faith ;  I  have  need  of 
passing  through  joy  and  of  creating.  .  .  .  Your  mere 
presence  is  enough  to  fructify  my  spirit  incalculably. 
A  moment  ago,  when  you  were  holding  me  in  your 
embrace,  I  suddenly  felt  a  torrent  of  music,  a  river 
of  melody  passing  through  the  silence.  ,  .  ." 

To  whom  was  he  speaking?  Of  whom  was  he 
asking  joy?  Was  not  his  musical  necessity  stretch- 
ing out  towards  her  who  sang  and  transfigured  the 
universe  with  her  song?  Of  whom,  if  not  of  fresh 
youth,  intact  virginity,  could  he  ask  joy  and  creation? 
While  she  was  holding  him  in  her  arms,  the  other 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  185 

woman  had  been  singing  within  him.  And  now, 
now,  to  whom  was  he  speaking,  if  not  to  her?  Only 
the  other  could  give  him  that  which  was  necessary 
to  his  art  and  his  life.  The  virgin  was  a  new  force, 
a  closed  beauty,  a  weapon  not  yet  used,  sharp  and 
magnificent,  bringing  the  intoxication  of  war.  A 
sorrow  mixed  with  anger  tormented  the  woman 
in  that  vibrating  broken  darkness  which  she  could 
not  leave.  She  was  suffering  as  if  lying  in  a  night- 
mare. It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  rolling  to  the 
deep  with  her  indestructible  encumbrance,  with 
her  past  life  and  her  years  of  misery  and  triumph, 
with  her  faded  face  and  her  thousand  masks,  with 
her  despairing  soul  and  the  thousand  souls  that  had 
inhabited  her  mortal  shape.  The  passion  that  was 
to  have  saved  her  was  pushing  her  irreparably  to- 
wards ruin  and  death.  In  order  to  reach  her  and  to 
reach  his  joy  through  her,  the  desire  of  the  man  she 
loved  was  obliged  to  force  itself  through  the  con- 
fused encumbrance,  made  up,  as  he  believed,  of  innu- 
merable, unknown  loves ;  it  would  contaminate  and 
corrupt  itself  there,  become  sharp  and  cruel;  lastly, 
from  sharpness  it  would  pass  to  disgust,  perhaps  to 
hatred  and  contempt.  The  shadow  of  other  men 
must  ever  lurk  above  his  own  caress,  and  that  shadow 
must  ever  kindle  the  instinct  of  brutal  ferocity  that 
was  hidden  in  the  depths  of  his  powerful  sensuality. 
Ah,  what  had  she  done?  She  had  armed  a  furious 
devastator  and  had  put  him  there  between  herself 
and  her  friend.  Henceforth  there  was  no  escape  for 
her.  She  herself  on  that  night  of  conflagration  had 
brought  him  the  fresh,  beautiful  prey  on  whom  he 
had  cast   one    of  those  looks  that  are  an   election 


1 86  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  a  promise.  To  whom  was  he  speaking  now,  if 
not  to  her?     Of  whom  was  he  asking  joy? 

"  Don't  be  sad  ;  don't  be  sad  !  " 

She  now  heard  the  words  confusedly,  more  faintly 
from  minute  to  minute,  as  if  her  soul  were  sinking 
and  the  voice  remaining  on  high,  but  she  felt  his  im- 
patient hands  caressing  her,  tempting  her.  And  in 
the  blood-like  darkness  that  was  like  the  darkness 
whence  folly  and  delirium  spring,  from  her  marrow, 
from  her  veins,  from  all  her  troubled  flesh,  a  savage 
rebellion  rose  suddenly. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  to  her;  shall  I  call  her  to  you?  " 
she  cried,  beside  herself,  opening  her  eyes  wide  on 
his  surprise,  seizing  him  by  the  wrists  and  shak- 
ing him  with  convulsed  strength.  "  Go,  go ;  she  is 
waiting  for  you.  Why  do  you  stay  here?  Go,  run; 
she  is  waiting  for  you." 

She  got  up,  raised  him  as  she  did  so,  and  tried  to 
push  him  towards  the  door.  She  was  unrecognis- 
able, transfigured  by  her  violence  into  a  threatening, 
dangerous  creature.  The  strength  of  her  hands 
was  incredible,  like  the  energy  of  harm  that  had 
developed  itself  in  all  her  limbs. 

"  Who,  who  is  waiting  for  me  ?  What  are  you 
saying?     Come  back  to  yourself,  Foscarina." 

He  was  stammering  as  he  called  her;  he  trembled 
with  misgiving;  he  seemed  to  see  the  face  of  folly 
outlined  in  those  convulsed  features.  She  was  like 
one  demented  and  did  not  hear  him. 

"  Foscarina ! " 

He  called  her  with  all  his  soul,  white  with  terror, 
as  if  to  stop  with  his  cry  the  reason  that  was  about  to 
leave  her. 


THE   EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  187 

She  gave  a  great  shudder,  unclenched  her  hands, 
and  looked  round  in  a  dazed  way,  as  if  she  were 
awaking  and  did  not  remember.     She  was  panting. 

"  Come,  sit  down." 

He  drew  her  back  to  the  cushions,  settled  her  there 
gently.  She  let  herself  be  soothed,  tended  by  his 
pained  tenderness.  She  seemed  to  awake  after 
having  lost  consciousness  and  to  remember  nothing. 
She  moaned. 

"  Who  has  beaten  me?  " 

She  felt  her  sore  arms,  touched  her  cheeks  near 
the  joint  of  the  jaws  that  hurt  her.  She  began  to 
shiver  with  cold. 

"  Stretch  yourself  out ;  lay  your  head  here.  ..." 

He  made  her  lie  down  and  rest  her  head,  covered 
her  feet  with  a  cushion,  softly,  very  gently,  bending 
over  her,  as  over  a  dear  invalid,  giving  up  to  her  all 
his  heart  that  was  beating,  beating,  still  terrified. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  repeated,  at  his  every  movement, 
as  if  to  prolong  the  sweetness  of  his  care  of  her. 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"  Yes." 

**  Shall  I  cover  you  up  ?  ** 

*'  Yes." 

He  looked  for  something  to  cover  her,  found  a 
piece  of  old  velvet  on  a  table.  He  covered  her  with 
that.     She  smiled  up  at  him  slightly. 

"  Are  you  comfortable  Hke  this?  " 

She  only  just  signed  to  him  with  her  eyelids  that 
were  closing.  He  picked  up  the  violets,  that  were 
languid  and  warm.  Then  he  placed  the  bunch  on 
the  cushion  where  her  head  was  resting. 

"So?" 


1 88  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Her  lashes  moved  still  more  slightly.  He  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead,  in  the  midst  of  the  perfume ; 
then  he  turned  to  stir  up  the  fire,  added  more  wood, 
raised  a  great  blaze. 

"  Does  the  heat  reach  you?  Are  you  getting 
warm?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

He  drew  near  and  bent  over  the  poor  creature. 
She  had  gone  to  sleep ;  the  contractions  of  her  face 
were  smoothing  out,  and  the  lines  of  her  mouth  had 
recomposed  themselves  in  the  regular  rhythm  of 
sleep.  A  calm  similar  to  that  of  death  was  diffused 
over  her  pallor.  "  Sleep,  sleep."  He  was  so  full  of 
love  and  pity  that  he  would  have  liked  to  transfuse 
an  infinite  virtue  of  consolation  and  forgetfulness  into 
that  sleep.     "  Sleep  on  ;  sleep  on  !  " 

He  remained  there,  standing  on  the  carpet,  to 
watch  her.  For  a  few  seconds  he  measured  her 
breathing.  Those  lips  had  said,  "  One  thing  I  can 
do  which  even  Love  cannot  do !  "  Those  lips  had 
cried  out,  "  Shall  I  take  you  to  her?  Shall  I  call 
her  to  you?  "  He  neither  judged  nor  resolved,  let- 
ting his  thoughts  disperse.  Once  again,  he  felt  the 
blind,  undaunted  forces  of  life  whirling  above  his 
head,  and  once  again  above  that  sleep  he  felt  his 
terrible  desire  of  life.  "  The  bow  is  called  Bios,  and 
its  work  is  Death." 

In  the  silence,  the  fire  and  the  water  spoke.  The 
voice  of  the  elements,  the  woman  sleeping  in  her  sor- 
row, the  nearness  of  fate,  the  immensity  of  the  future, 
memory  and  presentiment,  all  those  signs  created  a 
state  of  musical  mystery  in  his  spirit  in  which  his  un- 
expressed work  rose  up  and  received  light.  He 
heard  his  melodies  developing  indefinitely ;  he  heard 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  189 

a  person  in  the  fable  saying:  "It  alone  quenches 
our  thirst ;  and  all  the  thirst  that  is  in  us  reaches  out 
greedily  towards  its  freshness.  If  it  were  not  for  it, 
no  one  of  us  could  live  here;  we  should  all  die  of 
thirst."  He  saw  a  landscape,  furrowed  by  the  white 
dried-up  bed  of  an  ancient  river,  scattered  over  with 
lighted  bonfires  in  the  extraordinarily  calm  pure 
evening.  He  saw  a  funereal  glimmer  of  gold,  a  tomb 
full  of  corpses  all  covered  with  gold,  the  body  of 
Cassandra  crowned  among  the  sepulchral  urns.  A 
voice  was  saying :  "  How  soft  her  ashes  are  !  They 
run  through  the  fingers  like  sea-sand."  A  voice  was 
saying :  "  She  speaks  of  a  shadow  that  passes  over 
things  and  of  a  wet  sponge  that  wipes  out  all  traces." 
At  this,  night  came ;  the  stars  twinkled,  the  myrtles 
filled  the  air  with  odour,  and  a  voice  was  saying: 
"  Ah,  the  statue  of  Niobe  !  Before  dying,  Antigone 
sees  a  stone  statue  from  which  issues  a  spring  of 
eternal  tears."  The  error  of  time  had  disappeared, 
the  distance  of  centuries  was  abolished.  The  ancient 
tragic  soul  was  present  in  the  new  soul.  The  poet's 
words  and  the  poet's  music  were  recomposing  the 
ideal  unity  of  life. 


One  afternoon  in  November  he  returned  on  the 
steamer  from  the  Lido,  accompanied  by  Daniele 
Glauro.  They  had  left  the  stormy  Adriatic  behind 
them,  and  with  it  the  roar  of  the  green  and  white 
waves  on  the  desert  beach,  the  trees  of  San  Niccolo 
despoiled  by  the  rapacious  wind,  clouds  of  dead 
leaves,  heroic  phantoms  of  leave-takings  and  arrivals, 
the  memory  of  the  archers  competing  for  the  scarlet, 


I90  THE   FLAME    OF   LIFE 

and  of  Lord  Byron  galloping,  devoured  by  the 
anxiety  of  surpassing  his  own  destiny. 

"  I  too,  to-day,  would  have  given  a  kingdom  for  a 
horse,"  said  SteHo,  deriding  himself  in  his  irritation  at 
the  mediocrity  of  life  "  There  was  neither  a  cross- 
bow nor  a  horse  at  San  Niccolo,  not  even  the  courage 
of  the  oarsman !  Perge  audacter.  .  .  .  Here  we  are, 
on  this  ignoble  gray  carcass  that  smokes  and  grum- 
bles like  a  kettle.  Look  at  Venice  dancing  down 
there !  " 

The  anger  of  the  sea  was  spreading  over  the  lagoon. 
The  waters  were  agitated  by  a  strong  tremor,  and  it 
seemed  that  the  agitation  communicated  itself  to  the 
foundations  of  the  city,  that  the  palaces  and  cupolas 
heaved  like  boats  on  the  water.  Seaweeds  floated, 
torn  up  from  their  depths,  showing  all  their  whitish 
roots.  Flocks  of  sea-gulls  gyrated  in  the  wind  and 
at  times  their  strange  laughter  could  be  heard  hang- 
ing above  the  innumerable  crests  of  the  storm. 

"  Wagner !  "  said  Daniele  Glauro,  in  a  low  voice 
and  with  sudden  emotion,  pointing  out  an  old  man 
who  was  leaning  against  the  parapet  at  the  prow. 
"  There  with  Donna  Cosima  and  Franz  Liszt.  Do 
you  see  him?  " 

The  heart  of  Stelio  Effrena  beat  louder ;  for  him 
too  all  surrounding  figures  disappeared  ;  the  bitter 
tedium  ceased  with  the  oppression  of  his  inertia,  and 
there  remained  only  the  sense  of  superhuman  power 
conjured  up  by  that  name;  the  only  reality  above 
all  those  indistinct  husks  was  the  ideal  world  brought 
to  light  by  that  name  round  the  little  old  man  who 
was  bending  towards  the  tumult  of  the  waters. 

Victorious  genius,  fidelity  of  love,  unchangeable 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  191 

friendship,  all  the  supreme  apparitions  of  an  heroic 
nature  were  once  more  gathered  together  under 
the  tempest,  silently.  One  same  dazzling  whiteness 
crowned  the  three  persons  standing  near  one  another ; 
their  hair  over  their  sad  thoughts  was  extraordinarily 
white.  An  uneasy  sadness  stood  revealed  in  their 
faces  and  attitudes  as  if  one  same  obscure  presenti- 
ment lay  heavy  on  their  communicating  souls.  The 
woman's  white  face  had  a  beautiful  robust  mouth, 
made  up  of  firm  clear  lines  that  betrayed  a  tenacious 
soul ;  and  her  light  steely  eyes  were  continually 
fixed  on  him  who  had  chosen  her  for  the  companion 
of  his  great  warfare,  continually  adoring  and  vigi- 
lant on  him  who,  having  conquered  all  deadly  things, 
yet  would  not  be  able  to  conquer  that  other  death 
which  so  constantly  menaced  him.  That  feminine 
gaze  full  of  fear  and  of  protection  thus  opposed  itself 
to  the  invisible  eyes  of  the  other  Woman,  and  gath- 
ered a'  vague  funereal  shadow  round  the  protected 
one. 

"  He  seems  to  be  suffering,"  said  Daniele  Glauro. 
"  Don't  you  see?  He  looks  as  if  about  to  collapse. 
Shall  we  draw  nearer  to  him?  " 

Stelio  Effrena  gazed  with  inexpressible  emotion  at 
the  white  hairs  tossed  about  by  the  harsh  wind  on 
the  aged  neck  under  the  wide  brim  of  the  soft  felt 
and  at  the  almost  livid  ear  with  its  swollen  lobe; 
that  body,  borne  up  during  its  warfare  by  so  fierce 
an  instinct  of  predominance  now  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  rag  that  the  gale  could  sweep  away  and 
destroy. 

"Ah,  Daniele,  what  could  we  do  for  him?"  he 
asked  his  friend,  seized  by  a  religious  need  of  man!- 


192  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Testing  by  some  outward  sign  his  reverence  and  pity 
for  that  great  oppressed  heart. 

"What  could  we  do?"  repeated  his  friend,  to 
whom  that  fervent  desire  of  offering  something  of 
himself  to  the  hero  suffering  from  human  fate  had 
instantly  communicated  itself 

They  were  one  soul  in  that  act  of  fervour  and 
gratitude,  in  the  sudden  elevation  of  their  deep 
nobihty;  but  could  they  give  nothing  except  that 
which  they  gave.  Nothing  could  stop  the  secret 
workings  of  his  malady;  and  both  grew  more  sor- 
rowful as  they  gazed  at  the  white  hair,  the  frail  half- 
living  thing  blown  about  on  the  old  man's  neck  by 
the  vehement  breath  that  came  from  the  open  and 
brought  to  the  shuddering  lagoon  the  roar  and  the 
foam  of  the  sea. 

"  Ah,  proud  sea,  you  must  carry  me  still !  The 
salvation  which  I  seek  I  shall  never  find  on  earth.  I 
will  remain  faithful  to  you,  O  waves  of  the  great 
sea.  .  .  ."  The  impetuous  harmonies  of  the  Flying 
Dutchman,  with  the  despairing  recall  that  pierces 
through  them  at  intervals,  awoke  in  Stelio  Effrena's 
memory,  and  in  the  wind  he  seemed  to  hear  the  wild 
song  of  the  crew  again  on  the  ship  with  the  blood- 
like sails :  "  Iohoh6  !  lohohe  !  Come  to  shore,  O 
swarthy  captain :  seven  years  have  passed.  .  .  ."  And 
his  imagination  recomposed  the  figure  of  Richard 
Wagner  as  a  young  man,  the  recluse  lost  in  the  liv- 
ing horror  of  Paris,  poor  and  undaunted,  devoured 
by  a  marvellous  fever,  intent  on  his  star,  resolved  on 
forcing  the  world  to  recognise  it  too.  In  the  myth 
of  the  pale  seaman,  the  exile  had  found  an  image 
of  his  own   panting   race,  his   furious  struggle,  his 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  193 

supreme  hope,  "  But  one  day  the  pale  man  may  be 
delivered  if  only  he  find  in  his  wandering  a  woman 
who  will  be  faithful  to  him  unto  death." 

That  woman  was  there,  by  the  side  of  the  hero, 
like  an  ever  vigilant  custodian.  She,  too,  like  Senta, 
knew  the  sovereign  law  of  fidelity,  and  death  was 
about  to  dissolve  the  sacred  vow. 

"Do  you  think  that,  immersed  in  the  poetry  of 
myths,  he  has  dreamed  of  some  extraordinary  manner 
of  passing  away  and  is  now  praying  each  day  to  Nature 
to  conform  his  end  to  his  dream?"  asked  Daniele 
Glauro,  dwelling  on  the  mysterious  will  that  enticed 
the  eagle  into  mistaking  the  brow  of  ^schylus  for  a 
rock  and  brought  Petrarch  to  expire  alone  over  the 
pages  of  a  book.     "  What  would  be  a  worthy  end?  " 

"  A  new  melody  of  unknown  power  that  was  only 
indistinct  when  it  appeared  to  him  in  his  first  youth, 
and  that  he  was  then  unable  to  fix,  will  cleave  his 
soul  in  two,  like  a  terrible  sword." 

"  True,"  said  Daniele  Glauro. 

The  clouds  were  battling  through  space  in  phalanxes, 
overcoming  each  other,  driven  by  the  great  wind; 
the  cupolas  and  the  towers  swaying  in  the  back- 
ground also  seemed  deformed ;  the  shadows  of  the 
city  and  the  shadows  of  the  sky,  equally  vast  and 
mobile  on  the  swollen  waters,  changed  and  merged 
into  each  other,  as  if  made  of  substances  equally  near 
dissolution. 

"  Look  at  the  Magyar,  Daniele ;  his  is  certainly  a 
generous  spirit ;  he  has  served  the  hero  with  unlimited 
faith  and  devotion.  And  this  servitude,  more  than 
his  art,  consecrates  him  to  glory.  But  see,  how  from 
his  strong,  sincere  feeling,  he  draws  an  almost  his- 


194  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

trionic  performance,  such  as  he  would  draw  from  the 
continual  need  of  imposing  on  his  spectators,  to  de- 
lude them,  a  magnificent  image  of  himself." 

The  abbd  half  raised  his  thin,  bony  body  that 
seemed  clasped  by  a  coat  of  mail.  Holding  himself 
thus  erect,  he  uncovered  his  head  to  pray,  offering 
his  silent  prayer  to  the  God  of  Tempests.  The  wind 
ruffled  his  long  thick  hair,  the  great  leonine  mane 
whence  so  many  flashes  and  quivers  had  started  to 
move  women  and  crowds.  His  magnetic  eyes  were 
raised  to  the  sky,  while  the  muttered  words  that 
sketched  themselves  on  his  long  thin  lips  spread 
a  mystic  air  over  his  face  harsh  with  lines  and 
enormous  warts. 

"What  matters?"  said  Daniele  Glauro.  "He 
possesses  the  divine  faculty  of  fervour  and  a  taste  for 
overpowering  strength  and  dominating  passion.  Has 
not  his  art  aspired  towards  Prometheus,  Orpheus, 
Dante,  Tasso  ?  He  was  attracted  by  Richard  Wagner 
as  by  the  great  energies  of  nature ;  perhaps  he  heard 
in  him  that  which  he  tried  to  express  in  his  own 
symphonic  poem  '  What  is  heard  on  the  Mountain- 
side.' " 

"  True,"  said  Stelio  Efifrena. 

Both  started,  however,  on  seeing  the  old  bent  man 
turn  suddenly  with  the  gesture  of  one  about  to  be 
drowned  in  darkness,  and  clutch  convulsively  at  his 
companion,  who  gave  a  cry.  They  ran  to  him.  All 
those  who  were  on  the  boat,  struck  by  the  cry  of 
anguish,  rushed  and  crowded  about  him.  A  look 
from  the  woman  however  was  enough,  none  dared 
approach  the  seemingly  lifeless  body.  She  herself 
supported  him,  laid  him  on  the  bench,  felt  his  pulse, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  195 

bent  over  his  heart  listening.  Her  love  and  sorrow 
drew  an  inviolable  circle  round  the  motionless  man. 
All  drew  back,  silent,  anxious,  watching  the  livid  face 
for  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 

The  face  was  still,  abandoned  on  the  woman's 
knees.  Two  deep  furrows  descended  along  the 
cheeks  to  the  half-closed  mouth,  deepening  near  the 
imperious  nostrils.  Squalls  of  wind  stirred  the  rare 
and  very  fine  hair  on  the  full  brow,  and  the  white 
collar  of  beard  under  the  square  chin  where  the  ro- 
bustness of  the  jawbone  was  apparent  in  spite  of  the 
soft  wrinkles.  A  clammy  sweat  was  dropping  from 
his  temples,  and  a  slight  tremor  agitated  one  of  the 
hanging  feet.  Every  little  sign  in  that  pale  face  was 
impressed  on  the  minds  of  the  two  young  men 
for  ever. 

How  long  did  his  suffering  last?  Alternating 
shadows  continued  on  the  dark,  seething  water,  in- 
terrupted now  and  then  by  great  zones  of  sun-rays 
that  seemed  to  cross  the  air  and  sink  into  the  sea 
with  the  weight  of  arrows.  They  could  hear  the 
cadenced  noise  of  the  engine,  the  derisive  laugh  of 
the  sea-gulls,  and  already  the  dull  howl  coming  from 
the  Grand  Canal,  the  vast  moan  of  the  stricken  city. 

"  Let  us  carry  him,"  said  Stelio,  in  his  friend's  ear, 
intoxicated  with  the  sadness  of  things  and  the  so- 
lemnity of  his  visions. 

The  motionless  face  was  barely  giving  signs  of 
returning  to  life. 

"  Yes,  let  us  offer  ourselves,"  said  Daniele  Glauro, 
turning  pale. 

They  looked  towards  the  woman  with  the  face  oi 
snow,  and  held  out  their  arms. 


196  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

How  long  did  that  terrible  removal  last?  The 
space  from  the  boat  to  the  shore  was  brief  indeed, 
but  they  seemed  to  have  gone  a  long  way  in  those 
few  steps.  The  water  clamoured  against  the  posts  of 
the  landing-pier,  the  howl  broke  from  the  Canal  as 
if  it  came  from  the  windings  of  a  cavern,  the  bells  of 
San  Marco  were  ringing  for  vespers ;  but  the  confused 
noises  had  lost  all  immediate  reality ;  they  seemed 
indefinitely  profound  and  remote,  like  a  lament. o^ 
the  Ocean. 

They  carried  the  weight  of  the  Hero  on  their  arms ; 
they  bore  the  stunned  body  of  him  who  had  spread 
the  power  of  his  oceanic  soul  over  the  world,  the 
perishable  form  of  the  Revealer  who  had  laid  the  es- 
sences of  the  Universe,  in  infinite  song,  before  men's 
worship.  With  an  ineffable  shiver  of  fear  and  joy, 
like  the  man  who  should  see  a  river  dashing  itself 
over  a  rock,  a  volcano  bursting  open,  a  conflagration 
burning  a  forest,  a  dazzling  meteor  obscuring  the 
starry  heavens  like  man  in  the  presence  of  a  natural 
force  that  should  have  suddenly  and  irresistibly  mani- 
fested itself,  Stelio  Effrena  felt  under  the  hand  that 
was  passed  below  the  shoulder  and  sustained  the 
bust,  —  he  stopped  a  moment  to  grasp  his  strength, 
which  was  escaping  him,  and  gazed  at  the  white  head 
against  his  breast,  —  he  felt  in  his  hand  the  renewed 
beating  of  the  sacred  heart. 


"You  were  strong,  Daniele,  —  you  who  cannot  break 
a  stick!  That  old  barbarian  body  was  heavy;  it 
seemed  built  over  a  bronze  framework  of  bones ;  solid, 
well-built,  meant   to   remain  standing  on  a  shaking 


THE  EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  197 

deck, — the  structure  of  a  man  meant  for  the  sea. 
But  where  did  your  strength  come  from,  Daniele? 
I  was  afraid  for  you.  You  did  not  even  stagger ! 
We  have  carried  a  hero  in  our  arms.  We  must  mark 
this  day  and  celebrate  it.  His  eyes  opened  before 
mine ;  his  heart  beat  once  more  under  my  own  hand. 
We  were  worthy  of  carrying  him,  Daniele,  because 
of  our  fervour." 

"  You  are  worthy  not  only  of  carrying  him,  but 
of  picking  up  and  preserving  some  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful promises  offered  by  his  art  to  those  who  still 
hope." 

"  Ah !  if  only  I  am  not  overmastered  by  my  own 
abundance,  and  if  I  succeed  in  conquering  the  anx- 
iety that  suffocates  me,  Daniele !  .  .  . " 

On,  on  went  the  two  friends,  side  by  side,  intoxi- 
cated and  full  of  confidences,  as  if  their  friendship 
had  suddenly  become  something  higher,  increased  by 
some  ideal  treasure ;  on,  on  they  went  in  the  wind, 
in  the  noise,  in  the  evening's  emotion,  followed  by  the 
fury  of  the  sea. 

"  It  seems  as  if  the  Adriatic  had  overthrown  the 
Murazzi  this  evening,  and  were  about  to  scorn  the 
prohibition  of  the  Senate,"  said  Daniele  Glauro,  stop- 
ping before  the  wave  that  was  flowing  over  the 
Piazza  and  was  threatening  the  Procuratie.  "  We 
must  go  back." 

"  No,  let  us  take  the  ferry  across.  Here  is  a  skiff. 
Look  at  San  Marco  on  the  water !  " 

The  boatman  was  ferrying  them  to  the  Torre  dell' 
Orologio.  The  Piazza  was  inundated,  like  a  lake  in 
a  cloister  of  porticoes,  reflecting  the  sky  left  uncov- 
ered by  the  flight  of  the  clouds  that  were  coloured 


198  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

by  the  green  and  yellow  of  the  twilight.  The  golden 
Basilica,  more  living,  as  if  revivified  like  a  parched 
forest,  by  contact  with  the  water,  was  resplendent 
with  wings  and  halos  in  the  waning  light;  and  the 
crosses  of  its  mitres  could  be  seen  at  the  bottom  of 
the  dark  mirror,  like  the  spires  of  another  submerged 
Basilica. 

"  En  verus  fortis  qui  fregit  vincula  mortis," 
read  Stelio  Efifrena,  on  the  curve  of  an  arch,  under 
the  mosaic  of  the  Resurrection.  "  Do  you  know 
that  Richard  Wagner  had  his  first  conversation  with 
death  in  Venice  twenty  years  ago  now,  at  the  time 
of  Tristan?  Consumed  by  a  desperate  passion,  he 
came  to  Venice  to  die  here  in  silence,  and  composed 
instead  that  raving  second  act  which  is  a  hymn  to 
eternal  night.  His  fate  has  again  led  him  to  the 
lagoon.  It  seems  decreed  that  he  is  to  end  here, 
like  Claudio  Monteverde.  Is  it  not  indeed  a  musical 
desire  immense  and  indefinable,  this  desire  of  which 
Venice  is  full?  Here,  every  sound  transforms  itself 
into  expressive  voices.     Listen  !  " 

The  city  of  stone  and  water  had  become  sonorous 
like  a  great  organ.  The  hiss  and  the  howl  changed 
into  a  kind  of  choral  imploration  growing  and  waning 
with  a  rhythmic  swell. 

"  Does  not  your  ear  seize  the  line  of  a  melody  in 
this  chorus  of  moans?     Listen  !  " 

They  had  landed  from  the  skiflf  and  were  walking 
onwards  in  the  narrow  streets,  crossing  the  little 
bridges,  lingering  by  the  canal  footpaths,  penetrating 
into  the  city  at  random ;  but  even  in  the  excitement 
of  his  speed,  Stelio  directed  his  way  almost  by  in- 
stinct towards  a  distant  house  that  now  and  then  as 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  199 

in  a  lightning  flash  appeared  to  him  animated  by  a 
deep  expectation. 

•'  Listen  !  I  can  distinguish  a  melodic  theme  that 
rises  and  falls  without  the  power  to  develop  itself.  .  .  ." 

Stelio  stopped,  listening  with  so  acute  an  intensity 
of  attention  that  his  friend  was  surprised  as  if  he  were 
assisting  at  his  imminent  transversion  into  the  natural 
phenomenon  he  was  observing,  as  if  he  were  annul- 
ling himself  little  by  little  into  a  vaster  and  more 
powerful  will  that  was  making  him  similar  to  itself. 

"  Have  you  heard?  " 

"  It  is  not  given  me  to  hear  what  you  hear/* 
answered  the  barren  ascete  to  the  genius.  "  I  will 
wait  until  you  can  repeat  the  words  that  Nature  has 
spoken  to  you." 

Both  trembled  in  the  intimacy  of  their  hearts,  —  one 
most  lucid,  the  other  unconscious. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "I  don't  know  any 
more.  ...     It  seemed  to  me.  .  .  ." 

The  message  he  had  received  in  a  passing  state  of 
unconsciousness  was  now  slipping  from  his  percep- 
tion. The  workings  of  his  spirit  began  anew;  his 
will  reawakened,  agitated  by  anxious  aspirations. 

"  Ah,  to  be  able  to  restore  to  melody  its  natural 
simplicity,  its  ingenuous  perfection,  its  divine  inno- 
cence ;  to  draw  it  out  all  throbbing  with  life  from  its 
eternal  sources,  from  the  very  mystery  of  Nature, 
from  the  very  soul  of  universal  things !  Have  you 
considered  the  myth  referring  to  the  early  childhood 
of  Cassandra?  One  night  she  was  left  in  the  temple 
of  Apollo,  and  was  found  in  the  morning  lying  on  the 
marble,  held  in  the  coils  of  a  snake  that  was  licking 
her  ears.     From  that  time  she  understood   all   the 


200  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

voices  scattered  in  the  air;  she  knew  all  the  melodies 
of  the  world.  The  power  of  the  seer  was  but  a  mus- 
ical power.  A  part  of  that  ApoUian  virtue  entered 
into  the  poets  who  co-operated  in  the  creation  of  the 
tragic  chorus.  One  of  those  poets  could  boast  of 
knowing  all  the  different  voices  of  birds,  and  another 
of  being  able  to  converse  with  the  winds,  and  another 
of  fully  understanding  the  language  of  the  sea.  More 
than  once  I  have  dreamt  that  I  was  lying  on  that 
marble  in  the  coils  of  that  serpent.  .  .  .  That  myth 
would  have  to  renew  itself,  Daniele,  before  we  could 
create  the  new  art." 

At  every  step,  his  speech  grew  more  fervid ;  at 
every  step  he  gave  himself  up  further  to  the  tide  of 
his  thoughts,  still  feeling  however  that  an  obscure 
part  of  himself  was  remaining  in  communion  with 
the  sonorous  air. 

**  Have  you  ever  thought  what  the  music  might  be 
of  that  kind  of  pastoral  ode  sung  by  the  Chorus  in 
CEdipos  Tyrannos  when  Jocaste  flies  away  horrified, 
and  the  son  of  Laius  is  still  under  the  illusion  of  a 
last  hope?  Do  you  remember  that ,''  '  O  Citheron, 
let  Olympus  bear  witness  before  another  full  moon 
comes  round  again.'  For  a  moment  the  image  of 
the  mountains  interrupts  the  horror  of  the  drama, 
the  rural  serenity  brings  a  pause  in  the  human  terror. 
Do  you  remember  it?  Try  to  represent  the  strophes 
to  yourself  as  if  they  were  a  frame  within  the  lines 
of  which  a  series  of  corporal  movements  are  devel- 
oped, an  expressive  dance-figure  animated  by  the 
perfect  life  of  melody.  You  would  have  the  spirit  of 
Earth  conjured  up  before  you  in  the  essential  plan  of 
things ;  the  comforting  apparition  of  the  great  com- 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  201 

mon  Mother  at  the  misfortune  of  her  stricken,  trem- 
bling children,  a  celebration,  in  short,  of  all  that  is 
divine  and  eternal  above  mankind  which  is  dragged 
to  madness  and  death  by  cruel  Destiny.  Now  try 
by  intuition  to  feel  how  much  that  song  has  helped 
me  in  my  tragedy  to  find  the  means  of  the  highest 
and  simplest  expression." 

"  You  intend  to  re-establish  the  Chorus  on  the 
stage?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  shall  not  revive  an  antique  form ;  I 
shall  invent  a  new  form,  obeying  my  instinct  and  the 
genius  of  my  race  only,  as  the  Greeks  did  when  they 
created  their  drama,  that  marvellous  inimitable  edifice 
of  beauty.  For  a  long  time  the  three  arts  of  music, 
poetry,  and  dancing  have  separated  from  each  other; 
the  first  two  have  followed  their  development  toward 
greater  power  of  expression  ;  the  third  is  in  its  decad- 
ence ;  therefore  I  think  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to 
fuse  them  into  a  single  rhythmical  structure  without 
taking  from  one  or  other  of  them  its  own  already 
acquired  dominant  character.  If  made  to  concur 
towards  a  common  and  total  effect,  they  must  re- 
nounce their  supreme  and  particular  effect  and  re- 
main, in  a  word,  diminished.  Among  the  substances 
most  capable  of  receiving  rhythm,  language  is  the 
foundation  of  every  work  of  Art  tending  to  perfection. 
Do  you  believe  that  language  is  given  its  full  value  in 
the  Wagnerian  drama?  And  does  it  not  seem  to  you 
that  the  musical  conception  loses  some  of  its  prim- 
itive purity  by  often  being  made  to  depend  on 
performances  extraneous  to  the  genius  of  music? 
Richard  Wagner  certainly  has  a  sense  of  this  weak- 
ness and  confesses  it  when  he  goes  up  to  some  friend 


202  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

in  Bayreuth  and  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  that 
he  may  give  himself  up  entirely  to  the  pure  virtue  of 
the  symphony  and  be  therefore  rapt  by  the  greater 
joy  into  a  deeper  vision." 

"  All  this  which  you  are  exposing  is  new  to  me," 
said  Daniele  Glauro ;  "  yet  it  gives  me  a  joy  like  that 
which  we  feel  when  we  learn  things  that  have  been 
long  foreseen  and  felt  by  presentiment.  You  will 
therefore  superpose  the  three  rhythmic  arts,  but  will 
present  them  in  single  manifestations  linked  by  a 
sovereign  idea  and  elevated  to  the  supreme  degree 
by  their  own  significant  energy?" 

"  Ah,  Daniele !  How  can  I  give  you  an  idea  of 
the  work  that  is  living  in  me?"  exclaimed  Stelio 
Effrena.  "  The  words  with  which  you  would  attempt 
to  formulate  my  meaning  are  hard  and  mechanical.  .  . . 
No,  no.  .  .  .  How  shall  I  communicate  to  you  the  life 
and  the  infinitely  fluid  mystery  that  are  within  me?" 

They  were  at  the  foot  of  the  Rialto  steps ;  Stelio 
ran  up  rapidly  and  stopped  against  the  balustrade  at 
the  top  of  the  arch  waiting  for  his  friend.  The  wind 
went  over  him  like  an  army  of  flags,  the  ends  of 
which  were  striking  his  face;  the  Canal  beneath 
him,  lost  in  the  shade  of  the  palaces,  bent  like 
a  river  running  towards  some  cataract  roaring  afar; 
one  region  of  sky  above  him  was  clear  in  the  midst 
of  the  agglomerated  clouds,  vivid  and  crystalline 
like  the  serenity  that  spreads  itself  above  glaciers. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  stay  here,"  said  Daniele 
Glauro,  supporting  himself  against  a  shop  door;  "  the 
wind  will  carry  us  away." 

"  Go  down ;  I  will  overtake  you.  Only  a  moment," 
the  master  cried  to  him,  leaning  on  the  balustrade, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  203 

covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand  concentrating  all  his 
soul  into  the  effort  of  listening. 

Formidable  indeed  was  the  voice  of  the  gale  in 
that  gathering  of  centuries  now  turned  to  stone;  it 
alone  dominated  the  solitude  as  in  the  time  when 
the  marbles  still  slept  in  the  bosom  of  the  mountains, 
and  wild  grasses  grew  round  the  birds'  nests  in  the 
muddy  lagoon  islands,  long  before  the  Doge  was  in- 
stalled in  the  Rialto,  long  before  the  patriarchs  had 
led  the  fugitives  to  their  great  destiny.  Human 
life  had  disappeared ;  there  was  nothing  under  the 
heavens  except  an  immense  sepulchre  in  the  hollows 
of  which  that  one  voice  re-echoed,  and  that  voice 
alone.  Its  unaccompanied  song,  its  lamentation  that 
had  no  hope,  commemorated  the  multitudes  that  had 
become  ashes,  the  dispersed  pageants,  the  fallen 
greatness,  the  numberless  days  of  birth  and  death, 
the  things  of  a  time  without  name  or  form.  All  the 
melancholy  of  the  world  passed  with  that  wind  over 
the  outstretched  soul. 

"  Ah,  I  have  grasped  you,"  cried  out  the  joy  of  the 
triumphant  artist. 

The  entire  line  of  the  melody  had  been  revealed 
to  him,  was  henceforth  his,  was  immortal  in  his 
spirit  and  in  the  world.  No  living  thing  seemed 
more  living  to  him  than  that  one.  His  own  life 
yielded  to  the  unlimited  energy  of  that  sonorous 
idea,  yielded  to  the  generating  force  of  that  germ 
capable  of  infinite  developments.  He  imagined  it 
as  steeped  in  the  symphonic  sea  and  unfolding  it- 
self through  a  thousand  aspects  until  it  reached  its 
perfection. 

"  Daniele,  Daniele,  I  have  found  it.'* 


204  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

He  raised  his  eyes,  saw  the  first  stars  in  the 
adamantine  sky  and  intuitively  felt  the  great  silence 
in  which  they  throbbed.  Images  of  skies  rounded 
over  far-off  countries  crossed  his  spirit;  agitations 
of  sands,  trees,  water  and  dust  on  windy  days ;  the 
Libyan  Desert,  the  olive  field  on  the  Bay  of  Salona, 
the  Nile  close  to  Memphis,  the  parched  Argolides. 
Other  images  overtook  these.  He  feared  lest  he 
should  lose  what  he  had  found.  With  an  effort  he 
closed  his  memory  as  he  would  have  clenched  his 
hand  to  hold  something.  Close  to  a  pillar  he  noticed 
the  shadow  of  a  man  and  a  glimmer  at  the  end  of  a 
long  pole,  and  the  slight  explosion  of  a  flame  that 
is  being  lit  in  a  lantern.  With  anxious  rapidity  he 
marked  the  notes  of  the  theme  in  the  lamplight  on  a 
page  of  his  notebook,  fixing  in  the  five  lines  the  mes- 
sage of  the  elements. 

"  What  a  day  of  marvels !  "  said  Daniele  Glauro, 
watching  him  come  down  the  steps  as  light  and 
nimble  as  if  he  had  robbed  the  air  also  of  its  elastic 
properties.  "  May  Nature  always  cherish  you,  my 
brother ! " 

"  Come,  come !  "  said  Stelio,  taking  him  by  the 
arm  and  drawing  him  after  him  with  the  gladness  of 
a  child.     "  I  want  to  run." 

He  was  drawing  him  through  the  narrow  streets 
towards  San  Giovanni  Elemosinario.  He  was  re- 
peating to  himself  the  names  of  the  three  churches 
he  would  meet  on  his  way  before  reaching  the  dis- 
tant house  that  from  time  to  time  had  appeared  to 
him  as  in  a  lightning-flash  animated  by  a  deep 
expectation. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  Daniele,  what  you  told  me  one 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  205 

day ;  the  voice  of  things  is  essentially  different  from 
their  sound,"  he  said,  stopping  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Ruga  Vecchia  close  to  the  belfry,  because  he 
noticed  that  his  haste  was  tiring  his  friend.  "  The 
sound  of  a  wind  simulates  in  turns  the  moans  of  a 
terrified  multitude,  the  howling  of  wild  beasts,  the 
crash  of  cataracts,  the  quiver  of  unfurled  banners, 
mockery,  menace,  despair.  The  voice  of  the  wind 
is  the  synthesis  of  all  these  sounds;  it  is  the  voice 
that  sings  and  tells  the  terrible  travail  of  time,  the 
cruelty  of  human  destiny,  the  warfare  eternally 
waged  for  a  deception  that  is  eternally  renewed." 

"  And  have  you  never  thought  that  the  essence  of 
music  is  not  in  the  sounds  themselves?"  asked  the 
mystic  doctor.  "That  essence  dwells  in  the  silence 
that  precedes  sound  and  in  the  silence  that  follows 
it.  Rhythm  appears  and  lives  in  these  intervals  of 
silence.  Every  sound  wakens  in  the  silence  that  goes 
before  and  that  follows  it,  a  voice  which  can  only 
be  heard  by  one  spirit.  Rhythm  is  the  heart  of 
music,  but  its  throbs  are  inaudible  except  during  the 
pauses  of  sound." 

The  law,  metaphysical  in  its  nature,  thus  announced 
by  the  contemplator,  confirmed  Stelio  in  his  belief  in 
the  justness  of  his  own  intuition. 

"  Imagine,"  he  said,  "  the  interval  between  two 
scenic  symphonies  in  which  all  the  motifs  unite  to 
express  the  inner  essence  of  the  characters  that  are 
struggling  in  the  drama  and  to  reveal  the  inner  depths 
of  the  action,  as,  for  instance,  in  Beethoven's  great 
prelude  in  '  Leonora '  or  in  '  Coriolanus.'  That  musi- 
cal silence  throbbing  with  the  heart-beats  of  rhythm 
is  like  the  mysterious  living  atmosphere  where  alone 


2o6  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

words  of  pure  poetry  can  appear.  The  personages 
thus  seem  to  emerge  from  the  symphonic  ocean  as  if 
from  the  truth  itself  of  the  hidden  being  that  oper- 
ates within  them;  and  their  spoken  language  will 
have  an  extraordinary  resonance  in  that  rhythmic 
silence,  will  touch  the  extreme  limit  of  verbal  power, 
because  it  will  be  animated  by  a  continual  aspiration 
to  song  that  cannot  be  appeased  except  by  the  mel- 
ody that  shall  again  rise  from  the  orchestra  at  the  end 
of  the  tragic  episode.     Do  you  understand?  " 

"  You  mean  that  you  place  the  episode  between 
two  symphonies,  that  prepare  and  complete  it,  be- 
cause music  is  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human 
speech." 

"  I  thus  draw  the  personages  of  the  drama  nearer 
to  the  spectator.  Do  you  remember  the  figure  used 
by  Schiller  in  the  ode  he  composed  in  honour  of 
Goethe's  translation  of*  Mahomet,'  to  signify  that  only 
an  ideal  world  can  have  its  life  on  the  stage?  The 
Chariot  of  Thespis,  like  the  boat  of  Acheron,  is  so 
frail  that  it  can  only  carry  shades  or  human  images. 
On  the  ordinary  stage  those  images  are  so  distant  that 
any  contact  with  them  seems  as  impossible  as  contact 
with  mental  phantoms.  They  are  distant  and  strange, 
but  by  making  them  appear  in  the  rhythmic  silence, 
by  making  music  accompany  them  to  the  threshold 
of  the  visible  world,  I  draw  them  marvellously  near 
to  the  spectator,  because  I  illumine  the  most  secret 
depths  of  the  will  that  produces  them.  You  under- 
stand, their  intimate  essence  is  there  uncovered  and 
placed  in  immediate  communion  with  the  soul  of  the 
crowd.  And  that  crowd,  under  the  ideas  signified  by 
voice  and  gesture,  feels  the  depths  of  the  musical 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  207 

motives  that  correspond  to  them  in  the  symphonies. 
I  show,  in  a  word,  the  images  painted  on  the  veil  and 
that  which  happens  beyond  the  veil.  You  under- 
stand !  And  by  means  of  music,  of  dancing,  and  of 
lyric  poetry,  I  create  round  my  heroes  an  ideal  at- 
mosphere in  which  the  whole  life  of  Nature  vibrates, 
so  that  in  each  of  their  actions  not  only  the  powers 
of  their  preordained  destinies  seem  to  converge,  but 
also  the  obscurest  influences  of  surrounding  things, — 
of  the  elementary  souls  living  in  the  great  tragic  cir- 
cle. As  the  creations  of  ^schylus  bear  in  themselves 
something  of  the  natural  myths  from  which  they 
sprang,  I  would  that  my  creations  could  be  felt 
throbbing  in  the  torrent  of  savage  forces,  suffering 
from  contact  with  the  earth,  drawn  into  communion 
with  air,  fire,  water,  with  the  mountains  and  with  the 
clouds,  in  their  pathetic  struggle  against  a  fate  that 
must  be  conquered.  I  would  that  Nature  could  be 
round  them  as  our  oldest  forefathers  saw  her:  the 
passionate  actress  in  an  immortal  drama." 

They  were  entering  the  Campo  di  San  Cassiano, 
that  stretched  out  deserted  on  the  banks  of  its  livid 
stream ;  steps  and  voices  echoed  there  as  in  a  rocky 
amphitheatre,  clear  above  the  roar  that  came  from 
the  Grand  Canal  as  from  a  great  river.  A  purplish 
shadow  rose  from  the  fever-breathing  water  and 
spread  in  the  air  like  a  poisonous  exhalation.  Death 
seemed  to  have  filled  that  place  from  all  time.  At  a 
high  window  a  shutter  beat  in  the  wind  against  the 
wall,  grinding  on  its  hinges  like  a  sign  of  abandon- 
ment and  ruin.  Yet  all  those  appearances  worked 
extraordinary  transformations  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Life-giver.     Once  more  he  saw  a  wild,  lonely  spot 


2o8  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

by  the  tombs  at  Mycenae  in  the  hollow  between  the 
lower  peak  of  Mount  Euboea  and  the  inaccessible 
flank  of  the  citadel.  Myrtles  grew  vigorously  be- 
tween the  harsh  boulders  and  the  Cyclopic  ruins. 
The  waters  of  the  Fount  of  Perseia,  springing  from 
among  the  rocks,  fell  into  a  cavity  like  a  shell,  whence 
it  ran  out  and  was  lost  in  the  valley  of  stone.  At  its 
edge  at  the  foot  of  a  shrub  lay  the  body  of  the  Victim 
stretched  out  rigid,  spotless.  In  the  deadly  silence 
he  could  hear  the  rush  of  the  water  and  the  inter- 
mittent breath  of  the  wind  on  the  nodding  myrtles. 

"  It  was  in  an  august  place,"  he  said,  "  that  I  first 
had  the  vision  of  my  new  work  :  at  Mycenae,  at  the 
gate  of  the  lions,  while  re-reading  the  '  Oresteia.'  .  .  . 
Land  of  Fire,  land  of  thirst  and  delirium,  birthplace 
of  Clytemnestra  and  the  Hydra,  soil  made  sterile  for 
ever  by  the  horror  of  the  most  tragic  destiny  that 
has  ever  overwhelmed  a  human  race.  .  .  .  Have  you 
ever  thought  of  that  barbaric  explorer  who,  after 
having  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  among  his 
drugs  behind  a  counter,  began  digging  in  the  ruins 
of  Mycenae  among  the  graves  of  the  Atridae,  and  one 
day  (the  sixth  anniversary  took  place  not  long  ago) 
saw  the  greatest  and  the  strangest  vision  that  has  ever 
presented  itself  to  mortal  eyes  ?  Have  you  ever  con- 
sidered the  fat  Schliemann  in  the  act  of  discovering 
the  most  dazzling  treasure  ever  accumulated  by  death 
in  the  obscurities  of  the  earth  for  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands of  years?  Have  you  ever  thought  that  the  ter- 
rible, superhuman  spectacle  might  have  appeared  to 
another,  to  some  youthful,  fervent  spirit ;  to  a  poet,  a 
Life-giver,  to  you,  to  me,  perhaps  ?  The  frenzy  of  it, 
the  fever,  the  madness.  .  .  .  Imagine !  " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  209 

He  was  flaming,  vibrating,  all  at  once  carried  away 
by  his  fiction  as  by  a  storm.  His  seeing  eyes  shone 
with  the  gleam  of  the  funereal  treasures.  His  crea- 
tive force  was  flowing  to  his  spirit  like  blood  to  the 
heart.  He  was  the  actor  in  his  own  drama.  His 
accents,  his  gesture,  signified  transcendent  passion 
and  beauty,  overstepped  the  power  of  the  spoken 
word,  the  limit  of  the  letter.  The  fraternal  spirit  of 
his  companion  hung  upon  his  lips,  trembling  before 
the  sudden  splendour  that  was  realising  his  divinations. 

"  Imagine !  Imagine  that  the  earth  you  are  dig- 
ging in  is  evil ;  it  must  still  give  out  the  exhalations 
of  monstrous  deeds.  The  curse  that  weighed  on  the 
Atridae  was  so  deadly  that  there  must  have  remained 
some  vestige  of  it  still  to  be  dreaded  in  the  dust  that 
was  trodden  by  them.  You  are  stricken  by  witchcraft, 
the  dead  whom  you  seek  and  cannot  succeed  in  find- 
ing have  come  to  life  in  you  again  and  breathe 
within  you  with  the  tremendous  breath  that  iEschylus 
infused  into  them,  vast  and  bloodthirsty  as  they  ap- 
peared in  the  '  Oresteia,'  thrust  through  ceaselessly 
with  the  sword  and  brand  of  their  destiny.  Hence 
all  the  ideal  life  with  which  you  have  nourished  your- 
self must  have  assumed  in  you  the  form  and  the  im- 
press of  reality.  And  you  go  on  obstinately  in  this 
land  of  thirst,  at  the  foot  of  this  naked  mountain, 
drawn  into  the  fascination  of  the  dead  city,  digging, 
digging  in  the  earth,  with  those  frightful  phantoms 
always  before  your  eyes,  in  the  thirsting  dust.  At 
every  stroke  of  the  spade  you  must  tremble  through 
all  your  bones,  longing  to  see  really  the  face  of  one 
of  the  Atridae,  still  untouched,  with  the  signs  yet  vis- 
ible of  the  violence  he  endured,  the  cruel  death.   And 


210  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

it  appears,  the  gold,  the  gold,  the  bodies,  great  heaps 
of  gold,  the  bodies  all  covered  with  gold.  .  .  ." 

The  Atridae  princes  were  there  extended  on  the 
stone,  a  prodigy  called  up  in  the  darkness  of  the 
alley.  Both  the  listener  and  he  who  had  evoked 
them  shuddered  with  the  same  shudder  in  the  same 
flash. 

"  A  succession  of  tombs ;  fifteen  intact  bodies,  one 
beside  the  other,  on  a  bed  of  gold,  with  faces  covered 
with  masks  of  gold,  with  foreheads  crowned  with 
gold,  with  breasts  bound  with  gold ;  and  over  all, 
on  their  bodies,  at  their  sides,  at  their  feet,  over  all 
a  profusion  of  golden  things,  innumerable  as  the 
leaves  fallen  from  a  fabulous  forest.  .  .  .  Do  you 
see?     Do  you  see?" 

The  anxiety  of  rendering  all  that  gold  so  that  it 
should  be  palpable,  of  changing  his  hallucinating 
vision  into  a  sensible  reality,  suffocated  him. 

"I  see,  I  see!" 

"  For  a  moment,  the  soul  of  that  man  has  leaped 
back  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years,  breathed  the 
terrible  legend,  trembled  in  the  horror  of  that  ancient 
massacre.  For  a  moment  his  soul  has  traced  that 
ancient  and  violent  life.  They  were  there,  the  slain 
ones:  Agamemnon,  Eurymedon,  Cassandra,  and  the 
royal  escort  lay  under  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  motion- 
less. And  then  exhaled  like  vapour  —  do  you  see 
—  like  melting  foam,  like  dust  that  is  scattered, 
like  I  know  not  what  inexpressibly  faint  and  fugitive 
thing,  all  vanish  into  their  silence,  swallowed  up  by 
the  same  fatal  silence  that  was  about  their  radiant 
immobility.  A  handful  of  dust  and  a  heap  of 
gold " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  211 

The  miracle  of  Life  and  Death  was  there  on  the 
stones  of  the  deserted  alley  as  on  the  stones  of  the 
sepulchres.  Inexpressibly  moved,  trembling,  Daniele 
Glauro  seized  the  hands  of  his  friend.  And  in  his 
faithful  eyes  the  Life-giver  saw  the  dumb  flame  of 
enthusiasm  consecrated  to  the  masterpiece. 

They  stopped  by  a  doorway  against  the  dark  wall. 
There  was  a  mysterious  sense  of  distance  in  them 
both,  as  if  their  spirits  were  lost  in  the  depths  of 
time ;  and  behind  that  door,  antique  people  lived 
enslaved  by  a  motionless  Destiny.  From  the  house 
one  could  hear  a  cradle  that  was  being  rocked  to  the 
rhythm  of  a  low  sing-song ;  a  mother  was  conciliating 
the  sleep  of  her  child  with  a  melody  handed  down 
from  her  ancestors ;  her  protecting  voice  covered  the 
menacing  roar  of  the  elements.  The  stars  burned 
above  the  narrow  strip  of  sky.  Further  down  against 
the  walls  and  the  sand-banks  the  sea  was  lowing. 
Elsewhere  the  heart  of  a  hero  was  suffering  as  if 
waiting  for  death,  and  near  them  the  cradle  rocked 
on,  and  the  voice  of  the  mother  calling  down  happi- 
ness on  the  infant's  wail. 

"  Life  !  "  said  Stelio  Effrena,  resuming  his  walk  and 
dragging  his  friend  after  him,  "  Here,  in  one  instant, 
all  that  trembles,  weeps,  hopes,  yearns,  and  raves  in 
the  immensity  of  life,  gathers  itself  up  in  one  spirit, 
condensed  there  with  so  rapid  a  sublimation  that  it 
seems  as  if  one  should  be  able  to  manifest  it  all  in  a 
single  word.  What  word?  What  word?  Do  you 
know  it?     Who  shall  ever  say  it?  " 

He  was  once  more  beginning  to  suffer  from  his 
anxiety  and  discontent  that  wanted  to  embrace  all 
and  express  all. 


212  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  the  entire  universe  in  a  few 
seconds,  standing  out  before  you  like  a  human  head? 
I  have,  a  thousand  times.  Ah,  to  be  able  to  cut  it 
off,  like  him  who  cut  off  the  head  of  Medusa,  at  one 
blow,  and  hold  it  up  from  a  scaffolding  high  above 
the  crowd  that  it  might  never  forget  it  again.  Have 
you  never  thought  that  a  great  tragedy  might  resem- 
ble the  attitude  of  Perseus?  I  tell  you  that  I  should 
like  to  take  the  bronze  of  Benvenuto  away  from  the 
Loggia  of  Orcagna  and  carry  it  away  for  the  vestibule 
of  the  new  theatre  as  an  admonishment.  But  who 
shall  give  a  poet  the  sword  of  Hermes  and  the  mirror 
of  Athena?" 

Daniele  Glauro  was  silent.  He  who  had  received 
from  Nature  the  gift  of  enjoying  beauty,  though  not 
of  creating  it,  well  divined  the  torment  of  Stelio's 
fraternal  spirit.  Silently  he  walked  beside  his  brother, 
bending  his  vast  thoughtful  brow,  that  seemed  swol- 
len by  the  presence  of  an  unborn  world. 

"  Perseus !  "  added  the  Life-giver,  after  a  pause 
that  had  been  full  of  the  flashes  of  his  inventions. 
"  In  the  hollow,  under  the  citadel  of  Mycenae,  there  is 
a  fountain  called  Perseia:  the  only  living  thing  in 
that  place  where  all  is  burnt  up  and  dead.  Men  are 
attracted  to  it  as  to  a  spring  of  life  in  that  land 
where  the  sorrowful  whiteness  of  the  dried  up  rivers 
can  be  seen  late  into  the  twilight.  Every  human 
thirst  stretches  out  voraciously  to  its  freshness. 
Through  the  whole  of  my  work  the  murmur  of 
that  stream  will  be  heard :  the  water,  the  melody  of 
water.  ...  I  have  found  it !  In  it,  in  the  pure  ele- 
ment, the  pure  Act  which  is  the  aim  of  the  new 
tragedy  shall  be  accomplished.     The  Virgin  destined 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  213 

like  Antigone  to  die  '  deprived  of  nuptials '  shall  fall 
asleep  on  its  clear  icy  waters.  Do  you  understand? 
The  pure  Act  marks  the  defeat  of  ancient  Fate.  The 
new  soul  suddenly  bursts  the  iron  band  that  clasped 
it  with  a  determination  born  of  madness,  of  a  lucid 
delirium  that  is  like  ecstasy,  that  is  like  a  deeper 
vision  of  nature.  The  last  ode  in  the  orchestra  tells 
the  salvation  and  the  freedom  of  man  obtained  by 
means  of  pain  and  sacrifice.  The  monstrous  Fate  is 
conquered  there  by  the  tombs  into  which  the  race  of 
Atreus  descended,  before  the  very  bodies  of  the  vic- 
tims. Do  you  understand?  He  who  has  freed  him- 
self by  means  of  the  pure  Act,  the  brother  who  kills 
the  sister  to  save  her  soul  from  the  horror  that 
was  about  to  seize  her,  has  truly  seen  the  face  of 
Agamemnon !  " 

The  fascination  of  the  funereal  gold  was  again  tak- 
ing hold  of  him ;  the  evidence  of  his  internal  vision 
gave  him  an  hallucinated  appearance. 

"  One  of  the  bodies  exceeds  all  the  others  in  stature 
and  in  majesty :  wearing  a  large  crown  of  gold,  with 
cuirass,  girdle,  and  shoulder-plates  of  gold  surrounded 
with  swords,  spears,  daggers,  cups,  covered  with  in- 
numerable discs  of  gold  scattered  over  his  body  like 
petals,  more  venerable  than  a  demi-god.  He  bends 
over  him  while  he  melts  away  in  the  light  and  raises 
the  heavy  mask.  .  .  .  Ah,  does  he  not  indeed  see  the 
face  of  Agamemnon?  Is  not  this  perhaps  the  King 
of  Kings?  His  mouth  is  open;  his  eyelids  are  open.  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember?  Do  you  remember  Homer?  'As 
I  lay  dying  I  lifted  my  hands  towards  my  sword ;  but 
the  woman  with  the  dog's  eyes  went  her  way  and 
would  not  close  my  eyelids  and  my  mouth,  as  I  de- 


214  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

scended  to  the  abode  of  Hades.'  Do  you  remem- 
ber? Well,  the  mouth  of  the  corpse  is  open,  the  eyes 
are  open.  .  .  .  He  has  a  large  forehead  bound  with 
a  round  leaf  of  gold ;  his  nose  is  long  and  straight ;  his 
chin  oval.  .  .  ." 

The  dreamer  stopped  a  moment,  his  eyes  fixed  and 
dilated.  It  was  he  who  was  seeing;  the  vision  was 
his.  All  about  him  disappeared,  and  his  fiction 
remained  the  only  reality.  Daniele  Glauro  shuddered, 
for  he  too  had  seen  through  those  eyes. 

"  Ah,  even  to  the  white  spot  on  the  shoulder ;  he 
has  raised  the  armour.  .  .  .  The  spot,  the  spot! 
The  hereditary  sign  of  the  race  of  Pelops  *  of  the 
ivory  shoulders  ! '     Is  he  not  the  King  of  Kings?  " 

The  rapid,  interrupted  words  of  the  visionary 
seemed  a  succession  of  flashes  by  which  he  was  him- 
self dazzled.  He  himself  was  astonished  by  that 
sudden  apparition,  by  that  sudden  discovery,  that 
illumined  in  the  darkness  of  his  spirit,  manifested 
itself  and  became  almost  tangible.  How  could  he 
have  discovered  that  spot  on  the  shoulder  of  Aga- 
memnon? From  what  abyss  of  his  memory  had  that 
detail  arisen,  so  strange  and  yet  precise  and  decisive 
as  the  description  necessary  for  the  recognition  of  a 
body  dead  since  yesterday? 

"  You  were  there,"  said  Daniele  Glauro,  in  his 
exaltation.  "  You  yourself  have  raised  the  armour 
and  the  mask.  ...  If  you  have  really  seen  what 
you  say,  you  are  no  longer  a  man.  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  seen  !     I  have  seen  !  " 

Once  more  he  was  being  transformed  into  the 
actor  of  his  own  drama  and  with  a  violent  palpi- 
tation was  hearing  from  the  mouth  of  a  living  person 


THE    EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  215 

the  words  of  his  companion,  those  same  words  that 
were  to  be  pronounced  in  the  episode.  "  If  you 
have  really  seen  what  you  say,  you  are  no  longer  a 
man."  From  that  moment  the  explorer  of  tombs 
took  on  the  aspect  of  a  great  hero  fighting  against 
the  ancient  fate  that  had  arisen  from  the  ashes  them- 
selves of  the  Atridae  to  contaminate  and  overcome 
him. 

"  It  is  not  with  impunity,"  he  said,  "  that  a  man 
uncovers  tombs  and  gazes  on  the  face  of  the  dead ; 
and  of  what  dead  !  He  is  living  alone  with  his  sister, 
with  the  sweetest  creature  that  has  ever  breathed  the 
air  of  this  earth,  alone  with  her  in  the  house  full 
of  light  and  silence,  as  in  a  prayer,  a  consecration. 
.  .  .  Now  imagine  one  who  should  unconsciously 
drink  poison,  a  philtre,  something  impure,  that 
should  corrupt  his  blood,  that  should  contaminate 
his  thoughts :  thus,  suddenly,  while  his  soul  is  in 
peace.  .  .  .  Imagine  this  terrible  evil,  this  vengeance 
of  the  dead  !  He  is  suddenly  invaded  by  incestuous 
passion ;  he  becomes  the  trembling  and  miserable 
prey  of  a  monster,  fighting  a  desperate  hidden  fight, 
without  truce,  without  escape,  day  and  night,  at  every 
hour,  at  every  moment,  the  more  atrocious  the  more 
the  unconscious  pity  of  the  poor  creature  stoops  to 
his  evil.  .  .  .  How  can  he  be  liberated?  From  the 
moment  in  which  the  tragedy  has  its  beginning,  from 
the  moment  in  which  the  innocent  companion  begins 
to  speak,  she  appears  destined  to  die.  And  all  that 
is  said  and  accomplished  in  the  episodes,  and  all  that 
is  expressed  by  song  and  by  the  dance  and  by  the 
interludes,  all  serves  to  lead  her  slowly  and  inexor- 
ably towards  death.     She  is  the  equal  of  Antigone 


2i6  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

In  the  brief  tragic  hour  she  passes  accompanied  by 
the  light  of  hope  and  by  the  shadow  of  presentiment, 
she  passes  accompanied  by  song  and  weeping,  by  the 
great  love  that  offers  joy,  by  the  furious  love  that 
gives  birth  to  mourning,  and  never  stops  except  to 
fall  asleep  on  the  clear  icy  water  of  the  fountain  that 
called  her  uninterruptedly  with  its  solitary  moan. 
As  soon  as  he  has  killed  her,  her  brother  receives 
from  her  through  death,  the  gift  of  his  redemption. 
*  Every  stain  is  gone  from  my  soul,'  he  cries ;  *  I 
have  become  pure,  quite  pure.  All  the  sanctity  of 
my  first  love  has  returned  to  my  mind  like  a  torrent 
of  light.  ...  If  she  were  to  rise  up  now,  she  could 
walk  over  my  soul  as  over  immaculate  snow,  ...  If 
she  were  to  return  to  life  again,  all  my  thoughts  for  her 
would  be  like  lilies,  like  lilies.  .  .  .  Now  she  is  perfect, 
now  she  can  be  adored  like  a  divine  being.  ...  In 
the  deepest  of  my  sepulchres  I  will  lay  her  at  rest, 
and  I  will  set  about  her  all  my  treasures.  .  .  .' 
Thus  the  act  of  death,  that  he  has  been  dragged  into 
by  his  lucid  delirium,  becomes  a  purifying  act  of 
liberation  and  marks  the  defeat  of  an  ancient  fate.  The 
ode  emerging  from  the  symphonic  ocean  sings  of  the 
victory  of  man,  irradiates  the  darkness  of  the  catas- 
trophe with  an  unusual  light,  raises  on  the  summit  of 
music  the  first  word  of  the  renewed  drama." 

"  The  gesture  of  Perseus,"  exclaimed  Daniele 
Glauro,  in  his  exaltation.  "  At  the  end  of  the  tragedy 
you  cut  off  the  head  of  the  Moira  and  show  it  to  the 
crowd,  ever  young  and  ever  new,  that  brings  the 
spectacle  to  a  close  with  great  cries." 

Both  saw  in  their  dream  the  marble  theatre  on  the 
Janiculum,  the  multitude  dominated  by  its  idea  of 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  217 

truth  and  of  beauty,  the  great  starry  night  stretching 
over  Rome ;  they  saw  the  frenzied  crowd  carrying  in 
their  rude  hearts,  as  they  descended  the  hill,  the  con- 
fused revelation  of  poetry;  they  heard  the  clamour 
of  the  immortal  city  prolonging  itself  in  the  shadow. 

"  And  now  good-bye,  Daniele,"  said  the  master, 
again  seized  by  haste,  as  if  some  one  were  waiting  for 
him  or  calling  him. 

The  eyes  of  the  tragic  muse  gazed  immovable  in 
the  background  of  his  dream,  sightless,  petrified  in 
the  divine  blindness  of  statues. 

"  Where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  the  Palazzo  Capello." 

"  Does  la  Foscarina  know  the  thread  of  your  work?" 

"  Vaguely !  " 

"  And  what  shall  be  her  figure?  " 

"  She  shall  be  blind,  having  already  passed  into 
another  world,  already  half  alive  in  something  beyond 
hfe.  She  shall  see  that  which  others  do  not  see.  She 
shall  have  one  foot  in  the  shadow,  and  her  forehead 
in  eternal  truth.  The  contrasts  of  the  tragic  hour  shall 
reverberate  in  her  inner  darkness,  multiplying  them- 
selves in  it  like  thunder  in  the  deep  circles  of  solitary 
rocks.  Like  Tiresias,  she  shall  understand  all  things 
permitted  and  forbidden,  earthly  and  terrestrial,  and 
she  shall  know  'how  hard  knowing  is  when  knowing 
is  useless,'  Ah,  I  will  put  marvellous  words  in  her 
mouth  and  silences  that  shall  give  birth  to  things  of 
infinite  beauty.  .  .  ." 

"  Her  power  on  the  stage,  whether  she  is  silent  or 
whether  she  speaks,  is  more  than  human.  She  wakens 
in  our  hearts  the  most  hidden  evils  and  the  most  se- 
cret hopes ;  and  through  her  enchantment  our  past 


21 8  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

becomes  present,  and  through  the  virtue  of  her  as- 
pects we  recognise  ourselves  in  the  sorrows  under- 
gone by  other  creatures  in  all  time,  as  if  the  soul 
revealed  to  us  by  her  were  our  own  soul." 

They  paused  on  the  Ponte  Savio.  Stelio  was  silent 
under  a  flood  of  love  and  melancholy  that  suddenly 
invaded  him.  He  was  hearing  the  sad  voice  again  *. 
"  To  have  loved  my  passing  glory  only  that  one  day 
it  might  serve  yours."  He  was  hearing  his  own  voice 
again :  *'  I  love  you  and  believe  in  you ;  I  give  my- 
self up  entirely.  You  are  my  companion.  Your 
hand  is  safe."  The  power  and  security  of  that  alliance 
were  swelling  his  pride,  yet,  for  all  that,  deep  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  there  still  trembled  an  undefined 
aspiration  and  a  presentiment  that  grew  denser  at 
times  and  became  as  heavy  as  anguish. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you  to-night,  Stelio,"  con- 
fessed the  kind  brother,  he  too  falling  under  a  veil  of 
melancholy.  "Whenever  I  am  near  you  I  seem  to 
feel  myself  breathing  more  freely  and  living  a  quicker 
life." 

Stelio  was  silent.  The  wind  seemed  to  have  grown 
fainter,  the  intermittent  gusts  tore  away  the  acacia 
leaves  and  wrapped  them  round.  The  brown  church 
and  the  square  tower  of  naked  brick  prayed  to  the 
stars  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  know  the  green  column  that  is  in  San 
Giacomo  dall'  Orio?"  added  Daniele,  meaning  to 
keep  his  friend  a  few  moments  longer,  because  he 
dreaded  the  farewell.  "  What  a  sublime  substance  it 
is  !  it  seems  the  fossilised  condensation  of  an  immense, 
growing  forest;  as  it  follows  its  innumerable  veins, 
the  eye  travels  in  a  dream  into  silvern  mysteries. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  219 

When  I  gaze  at  it  I  seem  to  be  visiting  Sila  and 
Ercinna." 

Stelio  knew  it.  Perdita  had  one  day  remained  lean- 
ing against  the  great  precious  stem  for  a  long  time, 
contemplating  the  magic  golden  frieze  that  curves 
out — obscuring  it  —  above  the  canvas  of  Bassano. 

"To  be  ever  dreaming,  dreaming!"  he  sighed, 
feeling  a  return  of  the  bitter  impatience  which  had 
suggested  words  of  scorn  to  him  on  the  boat  that 
brought  him  from  the  Lido.  "  To  live  on  relics ! 
Think  of  Dandolo,  who  overthrew  that  column  and 
an  empire  at  the  same  time,  and  who  chose  to  remain 
doge  v/hen  he  might  have  been  emperor.  He  lived 
more  than  you  do,  perhaps,  who  wander  through 
forests  when  you  examine  the  marble  he  brought 
home  as  booty.     Good-bye,  Daniele." 

"  Do  not  diminish  your  lot." 

"  I  wish  I  could  force  it." 

"  Thought  is  your  weapon." 

"  Often  my  ambition  burns  up  my  thought." 

"You  can  create;  what  more  do  you  seek?" 

"  In  other  times  I  too  might  have  conquered  an 
archipelago." 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?  A  melody  is  worth 
a  province.  Would  you  not  give  up  a  principality 
for  a  new  image  ?  " 

"  I  would  that  J  could  live  the  whole  of  life  and  not 
be  only  a  brain." 

"  A  brain  contains  the  world." 

"  Ah,  you  cannot  understand !  You  are  the  ascetic ; 
you  have  overcome  desire." 

"  And  you  will  overcome  it,  too." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  would." 


220  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  Good-bye,  Daniele.  You  are  the  one  who  bears 
witness  to  me.     No  other  is  as  dear  to  me  as  you  are." 

Their  hands  met  in  a  firm  clasp. 

"  I  shall  stop  for  news  at  the  Palazzo  Vendramin," 
said  the  kind  brother.  His  words  brought  to  his 
mind  once  more  the  great,  ailing  heart,  the  weight  of 
the  hero  on  their  arms,  the  terrible  removal. 

"  He  has  conquered ;  he  can  die,"  said  Stelio 
Efifrena. 


He  entered  la  Foscarina's  house  like  a  spirit.  His 
intellectual  excitement  was  changing  the  aspect  of 
things.  The  hall,  illuminated  by  a  galley  lamp, 
seemed  immense.  A  felse  upon  the  pavement  near 
the  door  disturbed  him  as  if  he  had  met  a  coffin. 

"Ah,  Stelio!  "  cried  the  actress,  jumping  up  with 
a  start  when  she  saw  him  appear,  and  moving  quickly 
towards  him,  impetuous  with  all  the  spring  of  her 
desire  that  expectation  had  restrained.     "  At  last !  " 

She  stopped  an  instant  before  him  without  touch- 
ing him.  The  impulse  she  had  controlled  vibrated 
visibly  in  her  body  from  top  to  toe;  it  seemed  to 
beat  in  her  throat  in  a  short  gasp.  She  was  as  the 
wind  is  when  it  falls. 

"  Who  has  taken  you  from  me?  "  she  thought,  her 
heart  filled  with  doubt;  all  at  once  she  had  felt  some- 
thing in  the  loved  one  that  made  him  intangible  to 
her,  she  had  caught  something  in  his  eyes  that  was 
estranged  and  distant. 

But  she  had  been  most  beautiful  in  his  eyes  as  she 
came  forth  from  the  shade,  animated  with  a  violence 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  221 

not  dissimilar  to  that  of  the  storm  that  was  agitating 
the  lagoons.  The  cry,  the  gesture,  the  start,  the  sud- 
den stop,  the  vibration  of  her  muscles  under  her  gar- 
ments, the  light  in  her  face  extinguished  like  a  flame 
that  becomes  ashes,  the  intensity  of  her  look  that  was 
like  a  gleam  of  battle,  the  breath  which  parted  her 
lips  like  the  heat  that  breaks  open  the  lips  of  earth,  — 
all  these  aspects  of  the  real  person  showed  a  power 
of  pathetic  life  only  comparable  to  the  ferment  of 
natural  energies,  to  the  action  of  cosmic  forces.  The 
artist  recognised  in  her  the  Dionysian  creature,  the 
living  material  capable  of  receiving  the  impress  of 
the  rhythm  of  art,  of  being  fashioned  according  to  the 
laws  of  poetry.  And  because  she  was  in  his  eyes  as 
various  as  the  waves  of  the  sea,  the  blind  mask  he 
would  put  on  her  face  seemed  inert,  narrow  the  tragic 
fable  through  which  she  was  to  pass  sorrowing,  too 
limited  the  order  of  sentiment  from  which  she  was  to 
draw  her  expressions,  almost  subterranean  the  soul 
she  must  reveal.  "  Ah !  all  that  trembles,  weeps, 
hopes,  yearns,  raves  in  the  immensity  of  Hfe !  "  His 
mental  fancies  were  seized  with  a  sort  of  panic,  with 
a  sudden,  dissolving  terror.  What  could  that  single 
work  be  in  the  immensity  of  life?  yEschylus  had 
composed  more  than  a  hundred  tragedies,  Sophocles 
still  more ;  they  had  formed  a  world  with  colossal 
fragments  raised  in  their  titanic  arms.  Their  work 
was  as  vast  as  a  cosmogony.  The  .^schylian  figures 
seemed  to  be  still  warm  with  ethereal  fire,  shining 
with  sidereal  light,  damp  from  the  fertilising  cloud. 
The  statue  of  CEdipus  seemed  to  be  carved  out  of  the 
same  mass  as  the  solar  myth ;  that  of  Prometheus 
made  with  the  same  primitive  tool  with  which  the 


222  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

shepherd  Arya  had  produced  fire  upon  the  Asiatic 
heights.  The  spirit  of  the  Earth  worked  in  the 
creators. 

"  Hide  me,  hide  me !  and  do  not  ask  me  anything, 
and  let  me  be  silent,"  he  implored,  not  knowing  how 
to  dissimulate  his  excitement,  and  failing  to  control 
the  tumult  of  his  distracted  thoughts. 

The  heart  of  the  woman  throbbed  with  fear  in  its 
ignorance. 

"Why?     What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  am  suffering." 

"From  what?" 

"  From  anxiety,  anxiety,  from  that  malady  of  mine 
which  you  know." 

She  took  him  in  her  arms.  He  felt  that  she  had 
trembled  with  doubt. 

"  Mine,  still  mine?  "  she  asked  in  a  suffocated  voice, 
with  her  lips  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  yours  always." 

It  was  a  horrible  tremor  which  shook  the  woman 
every  time  she  saw  him  go  away,  every  time  she  saw 
him  come  back.  When  he  left  her,  was  he  going  to 
the  unknown  wife ;  when  he  returned,  had  he  come  to 
take  his  last  leave  of  her? 

She  strained  him  in  her  arms,  with  the  love  of  a 
mistress,  a  sister,  a  mother,  with  all  human  love. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
Tell  me ! " 

She  was  continually  tormented  by  the  need  of 
offering,  of  serving,  of  obeying  a  command  which 
should  drive  her  towards  danger  and  the  struggle  to 
obtain  some  good  which  she  should  bring  him  on 
returning  to  him. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  223 

"  What  can  I  give  you  ?  " 

He  smiled  slightly,  overtaken  by  weariness. 

"  What  is  it  you  want?     Ah,  I  know." 

He   smiled,    letting   himself  be   soothed    by   that 
voice,  by  those  adoring  hands. 

"  Everything,  is  it  not  true  ?  You  want  every- 
thing?" 

He  smiled  sadly,  like  a  sick  child  told  by  a  play- 
mate of  beautiful  games. 

"  Ah,  if  I  could.     But  nobody  in  the  world  will 

ever  be  able  to  give  you  anything  of  any  value,  sweet 

*  friend.    Only  your  poetry  and  your  music  can  demand 

everything.     Do  you  recollect  your  Ode  beginning, 

'  I  was  Pan  '  ?  " 

He  bent  over  the  faithful  heart  a  brow  that  was 
being  illumined  by  beautiful  things. 

"  I  was  Pan  ! " 

The  splendour  of  the  lyrical  moment  went  through 
his  spirit  together  with  the  delirium  of  the  Ode. 

"  Have  you  seen  your  sea  to-day?  Did  you  see 
the  storm  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  without  answering. 

"Was  it  a  great  storm?  You  told  me  one  day 
that  you  have  many  sailors  among  your  ancestors. 
Have  you  thought  of  your  house  on  the  sand-hills? 
Are  you  homesick  for  the  sands?  Do  you  want  to 
go  back  down  there?  You  have  done  a  great  deal 
of  work  down  there,  and  strong  work.  That  house 
is  blessed.  Your  mother  was  there  whilst  you  were 
at  work.  You  could  hear  her  walk  gently  in  the 
neighbouring  rooms.  .  .  .  Did  she  stop  to  listen 
sometimes?" 

He  clasped  her  in  silence.    The  voice  was  penc- 


224  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

trating  him  deeply  and  seemed  to  refresh  his  pent-up 
soul. 

"  And  was  your  sister  with  you,  too?  You  told  me 
her  name  one  day.  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  Her  name 
is  Sophia.  I  know  she  is  like  you.  I  should  like  to 
hear  her  speak  once,  or  to  see  her  pass  down  the 
road.  .  .  .  One  day  you  praised  her  hands  to  me. 
They  are  beautiful,  are  they  not?  You  told  me  one 
day  that  when  she  is  sorrowful  they  hurt  her  '  as  if 
they  were  the  very  roots  of  her  soul.'  That  was  what 
you  told  me,  *  the  very  roots  of  her  soul.'  " 

He  was  listening  to  her  almost  in  a  state  of  beati- 
tude. In  what  way  had  she  discovered  the  secret  of 
that  balsam?  From  what  hidden  spring  was  she 
drawing  the  melodious  fluidity  of  those  memories? 

"  Sophia  will  never  know  the  good  she  has  done  to 
the  poor  pilgrim.  I  know  little  about  her,  but  I  know 
that  she  is  like  you  in  the  face,  and  I  have  pictured 
her  to  myself.  .  .  .  Even  now  I  can  see  her.  .  .  . 
In  distant  countries,  far,  far  away  in  the  midst  of  a 
strange,  hard  population,  she  has  appeared  to  me 
more  than  once  when  I  was  feeling  lost ;  she  has 
come  to  keep  me  company.  She  would  appear  sud- 
denly without  my  calling  or  expecting  her.  .  .  . 
Once  at  Miirren,  which  I  had  reached  after  a  long 
tiring  journey  I  had  undertaken  in  order  to  see  a 
poor  sick  friend  who  afterwards  died.  ...  It  was 
at  dawn ;  the  mounains  had  that  cold  delicate  colour 
of  beryl  that  is  only  seen  among  glaciers,  the  colour 
of  those  things  that  will  for  ever  remain  distant  and 
intact  and,  oh,  so  enviable,  so  enviable !  Why  did 
she  come?  We  waited  together.  The  sun  touched 
the   peaks  of   the   hills.     Then   a  dazzling   rainbow 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  225 

ran  along  their  edges,  lasted  a  few  seconds,  and 
disappeared.  .  .  ." 

He  listened  to  her  almost  in  a  state  of  beatitude. 
Was  not  all  the  beauty  and  all  the  truth  that  he 
would  have  expressed  contained  in  one  of  the  stones 
or  flowers  of  those  mountains?  The  most  tragic 
struggle  of  human  passions  was  not  worth  the  ap- 
parition of  that  rainbow  on  the  eternal  snows. 

"  And  another  time?  "  he  asked  softly. 

For  the  pause  had  prolonged  itself  and  he  feared 
she  would  not  continue. 

She  smiled,  then  grew  sad. 

"Another  time,  it  was  at  Alexandria,  in  Egypt,  one 
confused  day  of  horror  as  if  after  a  shipwreck.  .  .  . 
The  city  had  all  the  appearance  of  putrefaction.  .  .  . 
I  remember :  a  street  full  of  muddy  water,  a  whitish 
skeleton-like  horse  that  was  splashing  in  it,  its  mane 
and  tail  looking  as  if  tinted  with  ochre ;  the  turrets  of 
an  Arab  cemetery ;  the  distant  glitter  of  the  marsh  of 
Mareotis.  .  .  .  Disgust,  ruin !  " 

"  Oh,  dear  soul,  never  again,  never  again  shall  you 
be  desperate  and  alone,"  he  said  in  his  heart,  swollen 
with  paternal  kindness  towards  the  nomad  woman  who 
was  calling  up  the  sadness  of  her  continual  wandering. 

His  spirit  which  had  stretched  out  so  violently 
towards  the  future  now  seemed  with  a  slight  shudder 
to  draw  back  into  the  past  the  power  of  that  voice 
which  was  being  made  present.  He  felt  himself  in  a 
state  of  concentration  sweet  and  full  of  images  like 
that  which  is  generated  by  the  telling  of  stories  round 
the  hearth  in  winter.  Like  once  before  under  the 
windows  of  the  cloistered  Radiana,  he  felt  himself 
seized  by  the  fascination  of  time. 


226  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  And  another  time?  " 

She  smiled,  then  grew  sad. 

"Another  time  it  was  in  Vienna,  in  a  museum.  .  .  . 
A  great  deserted  hall,  the  cracking  of  rain  on  the 
glass  of  the  windows,  numberless  precious  shrines  in 
crystal  cases,  the  signs  of  death  everywhere,  of  exiled 
things  no  longer  prayed  to,  no  longer  worshipped. 
.  .  .  Together  we  bent  over  a  case  containing  a 
collection  of  holy  arms  with  their  metal  hands  fixed 
in  a  changeless  gesture.  .  .  .  Martyrs'  hands  studded 
with  agates,  amethysts,  topazes,  garnets,  and  sickly 
turquoises.  .  .  .  Through  certain  apertures,  splinters 
of  bone  could  be  seen  in  the  interior.  There  was  one 
that  held  a  golden  lily,  another  a  miniature  city,  a 
third  a  column.  One  was  finer  than  the  others.  It 
had  a  ring  on  each  finger,  and  it  held  a  small  vase 
full  of  ointment:  it  contained  the  relics  of  Mary 
Magdalen.  .  .  .  Exiled  things,  become  profane  and 
no  longer  prayed  to,  no  longer  worshipped.  ...  Is 
Sophia  devout .''  Has  she  preserved  the  habit  of 
prayer?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
should  not  speak,  that  he  should  give  no  visible  sign 
of  his  own  existence  in  the  enchantment  of  that 
distant  life. 

"  Sometimes  she  would  come  into  your  room  while 
you  were  working  and  lay  a  blade  of  grass  on  the 
page  you  had  commenced." 

The  enchantress  shuddered  inwardly:  an  image 
that  was  wrapped  in  veils  revealed  itself  all  of  a  sud- 
den, suggesting  other  words  which  remained  unut- 
tered.  "  Do  you  know  that  I  began  loving  the 
creature  who  sings,  her  whom  you  cannot  have  for- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  227 

gotten,  do  you  know  that  I  began  to  love  her,  think- 
ing of  your  sister?  In  order  to  pour  into  a  pure 
soul  the  tenderness  which  my  heart  would  have 
given  to  your  sister  from  whom  I  was  separated  by 
so  many  cruel  things !  Do  you  know  it  ? "  The 
words  were  living,  but  they  remained  unuttered ;  yet 
the  voice  trembled  at  their  dumb  presence. 

"  Then  you  would  allow  yourself  a  few  moments' 
rest;  you  would  go  to  the  window  and  with  her  beside 
you  would  look  out  to  the  sea.  A  ploughman  urged 
his  young  oxen  yoked  to  the  plough  over  the  sand  to 
teach  them  the  straight  furrow;  you  would  watch 
them  with  her  every  day  at  the  same  time.  When 
they  were  fully  trained,  they  came  and  ploughed  the 
sand  no  longer,  but  were  taken  up  to  the  hill.  .  .  . 
Who  has  told  me  all  these  things?" 

He  himself  had  told  her  one  day,  almost  in  the 
same  words,  but  now  those  memories  were  being 
brought  back  to  him  like  unexpected  visions. 

"  Then  the  flocks  passed  along  the  seashore : 
they  came  from  the  mountains  and  went  to  the 
plains  of  the  Puglia,  from  one  pasture  to  another 
pasture.  As  they  walked,  the  woolly  sheep  imitated 
the  motion  of  the  waves,  but  the  sea  was  nearly  always 
quiet  when  the  flocks  passed  with  their  shepherds. 
All  was  quiet ;  there  was  a  golden  silence  stretched 
over  the  beach.  The  dogs  ran  along  beside  the 
flock :  the  shepherds  leaned  on  their  staffs,  and  the 
tinkle  of  their  collar  bells  was  faint  in  the  vastness. 
Your  eyes  would  follow  their  progress  as  far  as  the 
promontory.  Then,  later,  you  would  go  with  your 
sister  and  follow  the  marks  left  by  their  passage  on 
the  damp  sand.     It  was  here  and  there  dotted  with 


228  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

holes  and  golden  like  a  honeycomb.  .  .  .  Who  has 
told  me  all  these  things?" 

He  listened  to  her  almost  in  a  state  of  beatitude. 
His'  fever  was  quenched.  There  descended  upon  him 
a  slow  peace  that  was  like  slumber. 

"Then  the  sudden  squalls  would  come;  the  sea 
would  overrun  the  sand-hills  and  the  low  woods, 
leaving  its  foam  on  the  juniper  and  tamarisk  trees, 
on  the  myrtle  and  the  rosemary.  Quantities  of  sea- 
weeds and  fragments  would  be  thrown  on  shore. 
Some  boat  had  shipwrecked  somewhere.  The  sea 
brought  fire-wood  for  the  poor  and  mourning  who 
knows  where !  The  beach  would  be  crowded  with 
women  and  children  and  old  men  vying  with  one 
another  as  to  who  should  collect  the  largest  bundle. 
Then  your  sister  would  bring  other  help :  bread, 
wine,  vegetables,  linen.  The  blessing  would  rise 
louder  than  the  roar  of  the  waves.  You  would  look 
on  from  the  window ;  and  it  seemed  to  you  that 
none  of  your  beautiful  images  was  worth  the  odour 
of  the  new  bread.  You  would  leave  the  half-written 
page  and  hasten  down  to  help  Sophia.  You  would 
speak  to  the  women,  the  children,  and  the  old 
men.  .  .  .     Who  has  told  me  all  these  things?" 


From  the  very  first  Stelio  had  preferred  going 
to  the  house  of  his  friend  through  the  gate  of  the 
Gradenigo  garden  and  passing  among  the  trees  and 
shrubs  that  had  grown  wild  again.  La  Foscarina  had 
obtained  leave  to  unite  her  own  garden  with  that  of 
the  abandoned  palace  by  means  of  a  breach  in  the 
partition  wall.     But  soon  afterwards,  Lady  Myrta  had 


THE  EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  229 

come  to  inhabit  the  immense,  silent  rooms  that  had 
welcomed  as  their  last  guest  the  son  of  the  Empress 
Josephine,  the  viceroy  of  Italy.  The  rooms  were 
adorned  with  old  stringless  instruments,  and  the  gar- 
den was  peopled  by  beautiful  greyhounds  deprived  of 
their  prey. 

Nothing  seemed  to  Stelio  sadder  and  sweeter  than 
that  walk  towards  the  woman  who  awaited  him, 
counting  the  hours  that  were  so  slow  and  yet  so  swift 
to  fly.  The  canal  path  of  San  Simeone  Piccolo 
turned  golden  in  the  afternoon  like  a  bank  of  fine  ala- 
baster. The  reflected  sun-rays  played  with  the  iron 
of  the  prows  moored  in  a  row  by  the  landing  pier, 
quivered  on  the  steps  of  the  church,  on  the  columns 
of  the  peristyle,  animating  the  warm,  disjointed 
stones.  A  few  rotten  gondola  cabins  lay  in  the 
shade  of  the  pavement  with  their  cloths  spoiled  and 
discoloured  by  the  rains,  like  biers  worn  by  the  wear 
and  tear  of  many  funerals,  grown  old  on  the  cemetery 
road.  The  suffocating  odour  of  hemp  came  from  a 
decayed  palace  now  used  as  a  rope  factory,  through 
the  barred  windows  choked  with  greyish  down  as 
with  accumulated  cobwebs.  And  the  garden  gate 
opened  at  the  end  of  the  Campiello  della  Comare, 
which  was  grassy  like  the  churchyard  of  a  country 
parish ;  it  opened  out  between  two  pillars  crowned 
with  mutilated  statues,  and  on  the  limbs  of  these  the 
dried  ivy  branches  stood  out  like  veins.  Nothing 
could  have  seemed  to  the  visitor  sweeter  or  more 
sad.  The  chimneys  of  the  humble  dwellings  round 
th'e  grass  plot  smoked  peacefully  towards  the  green 
cupola;  now  and  then  a  flight  of  pigeons  crossed 
the  canal,  starting  from  the  sculptures  of  the  Scalzi; 


230  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  whistle  of  a  train  passing  on  the  lagoon  bridge 
could  be  heard,  and  the  sing-song  of  a  rope-maker 
and  the  roll  of  an  organ  and  the  chanting  of  the 
priests.  The  late  summer  was  deceiving  the  melan- 
choly of  love. 

"  Helion  !  Sirius !  Altair !  Donovan  !  Ali-Nour ! 
Nerissa  !     Piuchebella  !  " 

Lady  Myrta,  seated  on  the  bench  against  the  wall 
clasped  by  rose-bushes,  was  calling  her  dogs.  La 
Foscarina  stood  near  her,  dressed  in  a  tawny  garment 
that  seemed  made  of  the  wonderful  roan  stuff  used  in 
ancient  Venice;  the  sun  wrapped  the  two  women 
and  the  roses  in  one  same  fair  warmth. 

"  You  are  dressed  like  Donovan  to-day,"  said  Lady 
Myrta  to  the  actress,  smiling.  "  Do  you  know  that 
Stelio  loves  Donovan  above  all  the  others?" 

A  faint  blush  tinted  the  face  of  La  Foscarina;  her 
eyes  sought  the  tawny  greyhound. 

"  The  strongest  and  the  most  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  he  wants  him,"  added  the  old  lady,  with 
her  indulgent  sweetness. 

"  What  is  it  he  does  not  want?" 

The  old  woman  felt  the  veiled  melancholy ;  she 
remained  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

The  dogs  lay  near  them,  heavy  and  sad,  sleepy  and 
full  of  dreams,  far  from  their  plains,  their  steppes,  and 
their  deserts,  crouching  on  the  field  of  clover  where 
the  marrow  plants  meandered  with  their  hollow, 
yellow-green  fruit.  The  trees  were  motionless,  as  if 
they  had  been  fused  in  the  same  bronze  that  covered 
the  three  graduated  cupolas  of  San  Simeone.  There 
was  one  same  aspect  of  wildness  about  the  garden 
and  the  great  stone  dwelling,  darkened  by  the  tena- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  231 

cious  smoke  of  time,  streaked  with  the  rust  of  its  irons 
produced  by  the  rains  of  an  infinite  number  of  au- 
tumns. And  the  head  of  a  tall  pine  resounded  with 
the  same  twittering  which  was  certainly  reaching  the 
ears  of  Radiana  at  that  moment  from  her  walled 
garden. 

"Does  he  give  you  pain?"  the  old  woman  would 
have  liked  to  ask  of  the  woman  in  love,  because  the 
silence  weighed  upon  her  and  the  fire  of  that  sorrow- 
ful soul  was  warming  her  like  the  persistent  summer. 
But  she  dared  not.  She  sighed  instead  of  speaking. 
Her  heart,  which  was  ever  young,  could  still  beat  at 
the  sight  of  desperate  passion  and  threatened  beauty. 
"  Ah,  you  are  still  beautiful,  and  your  mouth  still 
attracts,  and  the  man  who  loves  you  can  still  know 
the  intoxication  of  your  pallor  and  your  eyes,"  she 
said,  looking  at  the  absorbed  actress,  towards  whom 
the  November  roses  were  stretching  out.  "  But  I  am 
a  shadow." 

She  lowered  her  eyes,  saw  her  own  deformed  hands 
resting  on  her  knees,  and  marvelled  at  their  being 
hers,  they  were  so  dead  and  contorted,  miserable 
monsters  that  could  no  longer  touch  anything  without 
exciting  repugnance,  that  henceforth  had  only  the 
sleepy  dogs  to  caress.  She  felt  the  wrinkles  on  her 
face,  the  artificial  teeth  against  her  gums,  the  false 
hair  on  her  head,  the  entire  ruin  of  her  poor  body, 
that  at  one  time  had  obeyed  the  graceful  dictates  of 
her  delicate  spirit;  and  she  marvelled  at  her  own 
persistence  in  struggling  against  the  decay  of  her 
age,  in  deceiving  herself,  in  recomposing  each  morn- 
ing the  laughable  illusion  of  essences,  ointments, 
rouge,  and  dyes.     But  was  not  her  youth  still  present 


232  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

in  the  continual  spring  of  her  dream  ?  Had  she  not 
yesterday,  only  yesterday,  caressed  a  lovable  face  with 
perfect  fingers,  hunted  the  fox  and  the  stag  in  the 
northern  counties,  danced  in  a  park  with  her  promised 
bridegroom  to  an  air  of  John  Dowland's. 

"  There  are  no  mirrors  in  the  house  of  the  Countess 
Glanegg ;  there  are  too  many  in  the  house  of  Lady 
Myrta,"  thought  la  Foscarina.  *'  One  has  hidden  her 
decadence  from  herself  and  all  others ;  the  other  has 
seen  herself  growing  older  each  morning,  has  counted 
her  wrinkles  one  by  one,  has  gathered  up  her  dead 
hairs  in  her  comb,  has  felt  the  first  shake  of  her  teeth 
in  her  pale  gums,  and  has  tried  to  repair  the  irrepa- 
rable ruin  by  artifice.  Poor,  tender  soul  that  would 
still  live,  smiling  and  fascinating !  One  should  dis- 
appear, die,  sink  below  the  earth,"  She  noticed  the 
little  bunch  of  violets  fastened  by  a  pin  to  the  hem 
of  Lady  Myrta's  dress.  In  every  season  a  fresh  flower 
was  pinned  there,  in  some  fold,  hardly  visible,  as  a 
sign  of  her  daily  illusion  of  spring,  of  the  ever- 
renewed  incantation  that  she  worked  on  herself  by 
means  of  memory,  music,  and  poetry,  with  all  the 
arts  of  dreams  against  old  age,  ill-health,  and  solitude. 
"  One  should  live  a  supreme,  flaming  hour,  and  then 
disappear  in  the  earth  before  all  fascination  be  lost, 
before  the  death  of  our  last  grace." 

She  felt  the  beauty  of  her  own  eyes,  the  hunger  of 
her  lips,  the  rough  strength  of  her  hair  folded  back 
by  the  tempest,  all  the  power  of  the  rhythms  and  the 
impulses  that  slept  in  her  muscles  and  in  her  bones. 
She  seemed  to  hear  her  friend's  words  which  had 
praised  her,  to  see  him  in  the  fury  of  his  desire,  in  the 
sweetness  of  languor,  in  the  moment  of  deepest  ob- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  233 

livion.  "  For  a  little  while  longer,  still  for  a  little 
while,  I  shall  please  him,  I  shall  seem  beautiful  to 
him,  I  will  burn  his  blood.  Still  for  a  little  while." 
With  her  feet  in  the  grass,  with  her  forehead  lifted 
to  the  sun,  in  the  odour  of  the  fading  roses,  in  the 
tawny  dress  that  likened  her  to  the  magnificent 
beast  of  prey,  she  burned  with  passionate  expecta- 
tion, with  a  sudden  flood  of  life,  as  if  that  future 
which  she  had  given  up  by  her  resolution  of  death 
were  flowing  back  into  the  present.  "  Come,  come !  " 
She  called  her  lover  inwardly,  half  intoxicated,  sure 
of  his  coming,  because  she  already  felt  him  and  had 
never  yet  been  deceived  by  her  presentiment.  "  Still 
for  a  little  while !  "  Every  moment  that  passed 
seemed  an  iniquitous  theft.  Motionless  as  she  was, 
she  suffered  and  desired  bewilderingly.  The  whole 
garden,  penetrated  by  heat  to  its  very  roots,  throbbed 
with  her  own  pulsation.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
about  to  lose  consciousness,  to  fall. 

"  Ah !  here  is  Stelio,"  exclaimed  Lady  Myrta, 
seeing  the  young  man  appear  among  the  laurels. 

The  woman  turned  quickly,  blushing.  The  grey- 
hounds rose,  pricking  their  ears.  The  meeting  of 
those  two  brought  forth  sparks  that  were  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  Once  more,  as  ever,  her  lover  had  felt 
in  the  presence  of  the  marvellous  creature  the  divine 
sensation  of  being  suddenly  wrapped  in  inflamed 
ether,  in  a  vibrating  atmosphere  that  seemed  to 
isolate  him  from  the  ordinary  atmosphere  and  almost 
ravished  him.  He  had  one  day  associated  that  mira- 
cle of  love  with  a  physical  image,  remembering  how 
on  one  distant  evening  of  his  childhood,  in  crossing  a 
desolate  plot  of  ground,  he  had  suddenly  found  him- 


234  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

self  surrounded  by  will-o'-the-wisps  and  had  uttered 
a  cry. 

"You  were  awaited  here  by  all  that  lives  in  this 
seclusion,"  said  Lady  Myrta,  with  a  smile  that  covered 
the  emotion  which  had  seized  the  poor  youthful  heart 
in  its  prison  of  an  old  ailing  body,  at  the  spectacle  of 
love  and  desire.    "  In  coming  you  have  obeyed  a  call." 

"  True !  "  said  the  young  man,  holding  the  collar 
of  Donovan,  who  had  crept  up  to  him,  remembering 
his  caresses.  "  Indeed,  I  come  from  somewhere 
very  far.  Where  do  you  think  I  come  from? 
Guess !  " 

"  From  the  land  of  Giorgione." 

"  No,  from  the  cloister  of  Santa  Apollonia.  Do 
you  know  the  cloister  of  Santa  Apollonia?  " 

"  Is  it  your  invention  of  to-day  .■'  " 

"Invention?  It  is  a  cloister  of  stone,  a  real  one, 
with  its  well  and  its  little  columns." 

"  It  may  be ;  but  all  the  things  you  have  once 
looked  at  become  your  inventions,  Stelio." 

"  Ah,  Lady  Myrta,  I  should  like  to  give  you  that 
gem.  I  should  like  to  remove  it  into  your  garden. 
Imagine  a  small  secret  cloister,  opening  on  an  order 
of  worn  columns,  coupled  like  nuns  when  they 
pace  fasting  in  the  sun,  very  delicate,  neither  white 
nor  grey  nor  black,  but  of  that  most  mysterious 
colour  ever  given  to  stone  by  that  great  master- 
colourist  called  Time.  And  in  the  midst  of  these  a 
well,  and  on  the  margin  furrowed  by  the  rope  a  bot- 
tomless pail.  The  nuns  have  disappeared,  but  I  think 
the  shades  of  the  Danaides  frequent  the  place.  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted  himself  suddenly  on  seeing  him- 
self surrounded    by   the    hounds    and    began    imi- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  235 

tating  the  guttural  sounds  made  by  the  kennel-man 
to  rally  them.  The  dogs  became  restless;  their 
melancholy  eyes  brightened.  Two  who  had  been  at 
some  distance  from  the  others  bounded  towards  him 
with  long  leaps,  jumping  over  the  bushes,  and  stopped 
before  him,  wiry,  sinuous,  with  strained  nerves. 

"Ali-Nour!  Crissa!  Nerissa !  Clarissa!  Altair ! 
Helion  !     Hardicanute  !     Veronese  !     Hierro  !  " 

He  knew  them  all  by  name ;  and  when  he  called 
them,  they  seemed  to  recognise  him  for  their  master. 
There  was  the  Scotch  deer-hound,  the  native  of  the 
highlands,  with  rough  thick  coat,  rougher  and  thicker 
round  his  jowls  and  nose  and  grey  as  new  iron; 
there  was  the  reddish  Irish  wolf-hound,  the  robust 
destroyer  of  wolves,  whose  brown  eyes  showed  the 
whites  on  moving;  there  was  the  spotted  Tartary 
hound,  black  and  yellow,  brought  from  the  vast 
Asiatic  steppes  where  he  guarded  the  tents  at  night 
from  leopards  and  hyenas;  there  was  the  Persian 
dog,  fair  and  small,  his  ears  covered  with  long  silky 
hairs,  with  a  bushy  tail,  his  coat  paler  along  the  ribs 
and  down  his  legs,  more  graceful  even  than  the  ante- 
lopes he  had  slain ;  there  was  the  Spanish  galgo  who 
had  migrated  with  the  Moors,  the  magnificent  beast 
held  in  leash  by  a  pompous  dwarf  in  the  picture  of 
Diego  Velasquez,  trained  to  course  and  overthrow 
in  the  naked  plains  of  the  Mancha,  or  in  the  low 
woods  thick  with  brushwood  of  Murcia  and  Ali- 
cante ;  there  was  the  Arabian  sloughi,  the  illustrious 
plunderer  of  the  desert,  with  dark  tongue  and  palate, 
all  his  sinews  visible,  his  framework  of  bones  show- 
ing through  the  fine  skin,  a  noble  animal  all  pride, 
courage,  and  elegance,  accustomed  to  sleeping  on 


236  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

rich  carpets  and  drinking  pure  milk  in  pure  vessels. 
And  gathered  together  in  a  pack  they  quivered  round 
him  who  knew  how  to  reawaken  in  their  torpid  blood 
their  primitive  instincts  of  pursuit  and  carnage. 

"  Which  of  you  was  Gog's  best  friend  ?  "  he  said, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  beautiful 
anxious  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

"  You  Hierro  ?     You  Altair  ?  " 

His  singular  accent  excited  the  sensitive  animals, 
who  listened  with  suppressed,  intermittent  yelps. 
Each  movement  of  theirs  imparted  a  shining  wave 
to  their  various  coats;  and  their  long  tails,  curved  at 
the  ends  like  hooks,  wagged  lightly  from  side  to  side 
against  their  muscular  haunches. 

"  Well,  I  must  tell  you  what  I  have  kept  silent 
until  to-day:  Gog,  do  you  hear?  who  could  break 
the  hare  at  one  snap  of  his  jowls,  —  Gog  is  crippled." 

"  Oh,  really  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Myrta,  regretfully. 
"  How  did  it  happen,  Stelio,  and  how  is  Magog?" 

"  Magog  is  safe  and  sound." 

They  were  a  couple  of  greyhounds  given  by  Lady 
Myrta  to  her  young  friend  to  take  with  him  to  his 
house  on  the  sea. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  Gog !  He  had  already  killed  thirty- 
seven  hares.  He  possessed  all  the  qualities  of  great 
breeding:  swiftness,  resistance,  an  incredible  quick- 
ness at  turning,  and  the  constant  desire  of  killing  his 
prey,  and  the  classical  manner  of  running  straight, 
and  gripping  from  behind.  Have  you  ever  seen 
greyhounds  course,  Foscarina?" 

She  was  so  intent  that  she  started  at  the  unexpected 
sound  of  her  name. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  237 

"  Never !  " 

She  was  hanging  on  his  lips,  fascinated  by  their 
instinctive  expression  of  cruelty  in  describing  the 
work  of  blood. 

"  Never !  Then  you  do  not  know  one  of  the  rarest 
manifestations  of  daring,  vehemence  and  grace  in  the 
world." 

He  drew  Donovan  towards  him,  knelt  on  the 
ground  and  began  feeling  him  with  his  expert  hands. 

"  There  is  in  nature  no  machine  more  precisely 
and  powerfully  adapted  to  its  purpose.  The  muzzle 
is  sharp  in  order  to  part  the  air  in  running,  it  is  long, 
in  order  that  the  jaws  may  disable  the  prey  at  the 
first  snap.  The  skull  is  large  between  the  two  ears 
in  order  to  contain  greater  courage  and  skill.  The 
jowls  are  dry  and  muscular,  the  lips  short  so  that 
they  barely  cover  the  teeth." 

With  easy  assurance,  he  opened  the  mouth  of  the 
dog,  which  attempted  no  resistance.  The  dazzling 
teeth  appeared,  the  palate  marked  with  large  black 
waves,  the  thin  rosy  tongue. 

"  See  what  teeth !  See  how  long  the  eye-teeth 
are,  and  a  little  curve  at  the  points  the  better  to 
retain  his  hold.  No  other  kind  of  dog  has  a  mouth 
constructed  in  so  perfect  a  manner  for  the  purpose  of 
biting." 

His  hands  lingered  in  the  examination,  and  his 
admiration  for  the  noble  specimen  seemed  to  have 
no  bounds.  He  had  knelt  down  on  the  clover, 
receiving  in  his  face  the  breath  of  the  animal,  which 
was  letting  itself  be  examined  with  unusual  docility, 
as  if  it  had  understood  the  praise  of  the  expert  and 
were  enjoying  it. 


238  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  The  ears  are  small  and  placed  very  high,  straight 
in  moments  of  excitement,  but  falling  flat  and  adhering 
to  the  skull  when  at  rest.  They  do  not  prevent  the 
collar  from  being  taken  off  and  put  on  again  without 
undoing  the  buckle :   so  !  " 

He  took  off  the  collar,  which  exactly  fitted  the 
animal's  neck,  and  put  it  on  again. 

"  Then  he  has  a  swan's  neck,  long  and  flexible, 
which  allows  him  to  grasp  his  peculiar  game  at  the 
moment  of  his  greatest  swiftness  without  losing  his 
balance.  Ah,  I  once  saw  Gog  clutch  a  hare  that  was 
jumping  across  a  ditch.  .  .  .  Now  observe  the  more 
important  parts :  the  length  and  depth  of  chest  made 
for  long  runs,  the  oblique  lines  of  the  shoulders  pro- 
portioned to  the  length  of  the  limbs,  the  formidable 
muscular  mass  in  the  haunches,  the  short  heels,  the 
backbone  saddle-backed  between  bands  of  solid 
muscles.  .  .  .  Look !  Helion's  backbone  stands  out 
plainly:  Donovan's  is  hidden  in  a  furrow.  The  paws 
are  like  those  of  a  cat,  with  nails  that  are  close,  but 
not  too  niuch  so,  elastic  and  sure.  And  what  ele- 
gance there  is  in  the  ribs,  disposed  with  the  symmetry 
of  a  fine  ship's  keel,  and  in  that  line,  curving  inwards 
towards  the  abdomen,  which  is  entirely  hidden.  All 
is  directed  to  one  aim.  The  tail  thick  at  its  root  and 
thin  at  the  tip  —  look !  almost  like  that  of  a  rat  — 
serves  the  animal  for  the  purpose  of  a  rudder  and  is 
necessary  to  him  in  order  to  be  able  to  turn  rapidly 
when  the  hare  doubles.  Let  me  see,  Donovan,  if 
you  are  perfect  also  in  this." 

He  took  the  tip  of  the  tail,  passed  it  under  the 
leg,  drew  it  back  towards  his  haunch-bone,  where  it 
exactly  touched  the  projecting  part 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  239 

"  Perfect !  I  once  saw  an  Arab  of  the  tribe  of 
Arbaa  measuring  his  sloughi  in  this  way.  Ali-Nour ! 
Did  you  tremble  when  you  discovered  the  flock  of 
gazelles?  Think,  Foscarina,  the  sloughi  trembles 
when  he  discovers  his  prey,  trembles  like  a  willow, 
and  turns  two  soft  beseeching  eyes  to  his  master  that 
he  may  be  set  free.  I  do  not  know  why  this  pleases 
me,  and  moves  me  so  much.  His  desire  of  killing  is 
terrible  in  him,  his  whole  body  is  ready  to  fly  like  an 
arrow,  yet  he  trembles !  Not  with  fear  surely,  not 
with  uncertainty,  but  with  desire.  Ah,  Foscarina,  if 
you  were  to  see  a  sloughi  in  those  moments  you 
would  certainly  carry  away  from  him  his  manner  of 
trembling,  and  you  would  know  how  to  make  it 
human,  and  you  would  give  men  yet  another  quiver 
with  your  tragic  art.  .  .  .  Get  up  Ali-Nour !  desert 
torrent  of  swiftness,  do  you  remember?  Now  it  is 
only  the  cold  that  causes  your  trembling.  .  .  ." 

Gay  and  voluble,  he  let  Donovan  go,  and  taking  in 
his  two  hands  the  snakelike  head  of  the  slayer  of 
gazelles,  looked  into  the  depths  of  his  eyes,  where 
lurked  the  homesickness  of  silent  tropical  countries, 
of  tents  unfolded  after  a  journey  that  meteors  had 
deceived,  of  bonfires  lit  for  the  evening  meal  under 
the  wide  stars  that  seemed  to  draw  their  life  from  the 
throb  of  the  wind  in  the  palm-tops.  "  Eyes  full  of 
dreams  and  of  melancholy,  of  courage  and  faithful- 
ness. Have  you  ever  thought,  Lady  Myrta,  that  the 
hound  of  the  lovely  eyes  is  precisely  the  mortal 
enemy  of  the  lovely-eyed  animals  like  the  gazelle 
and  the  hare?" 

The  woman  had  entered  into  that  bodily  incan- 
tation of  love  by  which  the  limits  of  one's   person 


240  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

seem  to  spread  and  be  fused  in  the  air,  so  that  each 
word  or  gesture  of  the  loved  one  excites  a  quiver 
sweeter  than  any  caress.  The  young  man  had  taken 
in  his  hands  the  head  of  Ali-Nour,  but  she  felt  the 
touch  of  those  hands  on  her  own  temples.  The 
young  man  was  searching  the  eyes  of  Ali-Nour,  but 
she  could  feel  that  glance  deep  in  her  own  soul,  and 
it  seemed  that  his  praise  of  those  eyes  flowed  to  her 
own  eyes. 

She  was  standing  on  the  grass  like  the  haughty 
animals  he  loved,  dressed  like  the  one  he  preferred  of 
all  the  others,  filled  like  them  with  a  confused  memory 
of  a  distant  origin,  and  slightly  stupefied  by  the  glare 
of  the  sun-rays  reflected  by  the  wall  covered  with 
rose-trees,  stupefied  and  fervent  as  if  in  a  slight  fever. 
She  heard  him  speaking  of  things  that  were  alive,  of 
limbs  apt  for  the  chase  and  the  capture,  of  vigour  and 
dexterity,  of  natural  power  and  the  vigour  of  blood, 
and  she  saw  him  bending  near  the  earth  in  the 
odour  of  the  grass,  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  pliable 
and  strong,  feeling  skins  and  bones,  measuring  the 
energy  of  exposed  muscles,  enjoying  the  contact  of 
those  generous  bodies,  almost  taking  part  in  that 
delicate,  cruel  brutality  that  it  had  more  than  once 
pleased  him  to  represent  in  the  inventions  of  his  art; 
and  she  herself,  with  her  feet  in  the  warm  earth  under 
the  breath  of  the  sky,  in  her  dress  that  was  similar  in 
colour  to  the  tawny  plunderer,  felt  a  strange  primitive 
sense  of  bestiality  rising  from  the  roots  of  her  being, 
something  that  was  almost  the  illusion  of  a  slow  meta- 
morphosis in  which  she  was  losing  a  part  of  her 
human  consciousness  and  becoming  a  child  of  nature, 
a  short-lived,  ingenuous  force,  a  savage  lif(?. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  241 

Thus  was  he  not  touching  the  obscurest  mystery 
of  her  being?  was  he  not  making  her  feel  the  animal 
profundity  from  which  the  unexpected  revelations  of 
her  tragic  genius  had  sprung  forth,  shaking  and 
inebriating  the  multitude  like  the  sights  of  the  sea 
and  the  sky,  like  the  dawn  or  the  tempest?  When 
he  had  told  her  of  the  quivering  slonghi,  had  he  not 
divined  the  natural  analogies  from  which  she  drew  the 
powers  of  expression  that  had  set  poets  and  peoples 
wondering?  It  was  because  she  had  discovered  anew 
the  Dionysian  sense  of  nature  the  naturaliser,  the 
ancient  fervour  of  instinctive  and  creative  energies, 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  manifold  god  emerging  from 
the  ferment  of  every  sap  that  she  appeared  so  new 
and  so  great  on  the  stage.  She  had  sometimes  felt 
in  herself  something  like  an  imminent  approach  of 
the  miracle  that  used  of  old  to  swell  with  divine  milk 
the  bosom  of  the  Maenades  when  they  saw  the  young 
panthers  draw  near  them  craving  for  food. 

She  stood  on  the  grass  tawny  and  agile  like  the 
favourite  hound,  full  of  the  confused  memory  of  a 
distant  origin,  living  and  desirous  of  living  without 
measure  in  the  brief  hour  allotted  to  her.  The  mist 
of  tears  was  vain,  all  the  stifling  aspirations  to  good- 
ness and  renunciation  fell,  and  all  the  ashen  melan- 
cholies of  the  deserted  garden.  The  presence  of  the 
Life-giver  seemed  to  widen  space,  to  change  time, 
to  quicken  the  throb  of  blood,  to  multiply  the  faculty 
of  enjoyment,  to  create  once  more  the  phantom  of 
a  magnificent  festival.  She  was  there  once  more  as 
he  had  wished  to  shape  her,  forgetful  of  fears  and 
wretchedness,  cured  of  her  sad  evil,  a  creature  of 
flesh  vibrating  in  the  light,  in  the  warmth,  in  the  per- 


242  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE      . 

fumes,  in  the  play  of  appearances,  ready  to  cross  the 
suggested  plains  and  sand-hills  and  deserts  with  him 
in  the  fury  of  the  chase,  to  feel  the  intoxication  of 
that  ecstasy,  to  rejoice  at  the  sight  of  courage,  skill, 
and  bleeding  spoils.  From  second  to  second  as 
he  spoke  and  moved,  he  shaped  her  after  his  own 
likeness. 

"  Ah,  every  time  I  saw  the  hare  breaking  in  the 
teeth  of  the  hound,  a  flash  of  regret  would  pass  over 
my  joy  for  those  great  moist  eyes  that  were  being 
extinguished !  Larger  than  yours,  Ali-Nour,  and 
larger  than  yours,  Donovan,  resplendent  like  pools 
on  a  summer  evening,  with  the  same  circle  of  wil- 
lows dipping  into  them  and  the  same  heaven  mir- 
rored and  changing  in  them.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
hare  in  the  early  morning,  emerge  from  a  freshly 
ploughed  furrow,  run  for  a  while  on  the  silver  hoar- 
frost, then  stop  in  the  silence,  sit  down  on  its  hind- 
legs,  prick  up  its  ears,  and  watcii  the  horizon?  Its 
look  seems  to  pacify  the  universe.  The  motionless 
hare  searching  the  smoking  field  in  a  moment  of 
respite  from  its  perpetual  anxiety !  One  could  not 
imagine  a  more  certain  sign  of  perfect  surrounding 
peace.  In  those  moments,  it  is  a  sacred  animal  that 
we  should  adore.  .  .  ." 

'Lady  Myrta  broke  into  the  youthful  laugh  that 
revealed  the' whole  range  of  her  gilded  elephantine 
teeth  and  shook  the  tortoise-like  wrinkles  under  her 
chin. 

"  Kind  Stelio,"  she  exclaimed,  laughing,  "  first  to 
adore,  then  tear  in  pieces:   is  that  your  way?" 

La  Foscarina  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise,  for 
she  had  forgotten  her;  and  sitting  there  on  the  stone 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  243 

seat,  yellow  with  mosses,  with  her  contorted  hands, 
with  that  glitter  of  gold  and  ivory  between  her  thin 
lips,  with  those  small  blue  eyes  under  limp  eyelids, 
with  that  harsh  voice  and  that  queer  laugh,  she  sug- 
gested the  image  of  one  of  those  old  web-footed 
fairies  that  wander  through  the  woods  followed  by  an 
obedient  toad.  The  words  did  not  penetrate  the 
oblivion  in  which  she  had  lost  herself,  nevertheless 
they  disturbed  her  as  a  shriek. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  said  Stelio,  "  if  greyhounds 
are  made  to  kill  hares  and  not  to  slumber  in  a  walled 
garden  on  the  waters  of  a  dead  canal." 

Again  he  began  imitating  the  guttural  sounds 
of  the  kennel-man. 

"  Crissa !  Nerissa !  Altair !  Sirius !  Piuchebella ! 
Helion !  " 

The  excited  dogs  grew  agitated :  their  eyes  lit  up ; 
the  dry  muscles  started  under  the  tawny,  black, 
white,  leaden,  spotted,  and  mingled  coats;  the  long 
haunches  curved  like  bows  ready  to  unbend  and  to 
hurl  into  space  the  carcasses  drier  and  more  slender 
than  a  bundle  of  arrows. 

"  There,  there,  Donovan,  there  !  " 

He  was  pointing  to  something  half  grey,  half  red- 
dish, in  the  grass  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  that 
had  the  appearance  of  a  hare  crouching  with  its 
ears  laid  flat.  The  imperious  voice  deceived  the 
hesitating  hounds,  and  the  thin  powerful  bodies  were 
beautiful  to  see  in  the  sunlight,  shining  like  living 
silk,  quivering  and  vibrating  at  the  stimulus  of  the 
human  voice  like  the  lightest  flags  in  a  pavice,  an- 
swering to  the  breeze. 

"  There,  Donovan ! " 


244  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

And  the  great  tawny  dog  looked  him  in  the  eyes, 
gave  a  formidable  leap,  dashed  towards  the  fancied 
prey  with  all  the  vehemence  of  his  reawakened  in- 
stinct. He  had  reached  it  in  an  instant,  then  stopped, 
disappointed,  bending  on  his  hind-legs,  his  neck 
thrust  forward ;  then  he  leaped  again,  began  playing 
with  the  pack  that  had  followed  him  in  great  dis- 
order, began  fighting  Altair,  left  off,  and,  his  pointed 
muzzle  erect,  followed,  barking,  a  flock  of  sparrows 
that  had  flown  away  from  the  pine  top  with  a  gay 
rustle  in  the  blue. 

"  A  marrow,  a  marrow,"  cried  the  deceiver,  between 
his  peals  of  laughter,  "  not  even  a  rabbit.  Poor 
Donovan  !  A  bite  in  a  pumpkin.  Ah,  poor  Donovan, 
what  a  humiliation !  Take  care.  Lady  Myrta,  lest  he 
drown  himself  in  the  canal  to  hide  his  shame.  .  .  ." 

Seized  by  the  contagion  of  his  gaiety,  la  Foscarina 
laughed  with  him.  Her  roan  dress  and  the  coats  of 
the  hounds  shone  in  the  slanting  sun  on  the  green 
of  the  clover.  The  whiteness  of  her  teeth  and  the 
pealing  laughter  filled  her  mouth  with  renewed 
youth.  The  tedium  of  the  ancient  garden  seemed 
torn  asunder  like  the  cobwebs  that  are  brushed  away 
when  a  violent  hand  opens  a  window  that  has  been 
long  closed. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  Donovan?"  said  Lady 
Myrta,  with  a  malicious  grace  in  her  soul  that  lost 
itself  among  her  wrinkles  like  a  stream  in  a  flooded 
land.     "  I  know,  I  know  your  arts.  .  .  ." 

Stelio  ceased  laughing,  blushing  like  a  child. 

A  wave  of  tenderness  swelled  the  bosom  of  la 
Foscarina  as  she  noticed  the  childish  blush.  Her 
whole  being  sparkled  with  love;    and  a  mad  desire 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  245 

to  fold  her  lover  in  her  arms  quivered  in  her  pulses 
and  on  her  lips. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  him?"  Lady  Myrta 
asked  again,  happy  at  being  able  to  give,  and  grate- 
ful to  him  who  had  received  the  gift  with  so  much 
fresh,  vivid  pleasure,     "  Donovan  is  yours !  " 

Before  thanking  her,  his  eyes  sought  the  grey- 
hound almost  anxiously,  he  saw  him  again  as  he  was, 
strong,  splendid,  most  beautiful,  with  the  stamp  of 
style  on  his  limbs  as  if  Pisanello  had  designed  him 
for 'the  reverse  of  a  medal. 

"But  Gog,  what  has  become  of  Gog?  You  have 
not  said  another  word  about  him,"  said  the  giver. 
**  Ah,  how  easily  an  invalid  goes  out  of  our  minds !  " 

Stelio  was  watching  la  Foscarina,  who  had  turned 
towards  the  group  of  hounds,  walking  on  the  grass 
with  a  quick  undulation  which  was  like  the  step 
called  precisely  by  the  old  Venetians  the  greyhound 
step.  The  roan  dress,  gilded  by  the  declining  sun, 
seemed  burning  on  her  flexible  figure.  And  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  she  was  going  towards  the  animal  of 
her  own  colour,  to  which  she  likened  herself  strangely 
by  her  deep  mimetic  instinct,  almost  to  the  point  of 
being  transfigured. 

"  It  was  after  a  run,"  said  Stelio.  "  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  having  a  hare  coursed  along  the  sand-hills 
by  the  seashore  nearly  every  day.  The  peasants 
often  brought  me  live  ones  from  my  own  grounds, 
dark,  robust  ones  ready  to  defend  themselves,  most 
cunning,  capable  of  scratching  and  biting.  Ah,  Lady 
Myrta,  there  is  no  ground  for  a  run  finer  than  my 
free  seashore.  You  know  the  great  plateaus  of  Lan- 
cashire, the  dry  Yorkshire   soil,  the  hard  plains  of 


246  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Altcar,  the  low  Scotch  moors,  the  sands  of  southern 
England ;  but  a  gallop  along  my  sand-hills,  more 
golden  and  more  luminous  than  the  autumn  clouds, 
beyond  the  low  juniper  and  tamarisk  clusters,  beyond 
the  small,  limpid  mouths  of  the  streams,  beyond  the 
little  salt  pools,  along  a  sea  which  is  greener  than  a 
meadow,  within  sight  of  the  blue  and  snowy  moun- 
tains, would  obscure  your  fairest  memories,  Lady 
Myrta." 

"  Italy !  Italy ! "  smiled  the  indulgent  old  fairy. 
"The  flower  of  the  world." 

"  It  was  along  that  shore  that  I  would  let  the  hare 
loose.  I  trained  a  man  to  unleash  the  dogs  at  the 
right  moment,  and  I  would  follow  the  chase  on 
horseback.  .  .  .  Certainly  Magog  is  an  excellent 
courser,  but  I  had  never  seen  a  more  ready  or  more 
ardent  slayer  than  Gog.  .  .  ." 

"  He  came  from  the  Newmarket  kennels,"  said  the 
giver,  proudly. 

"  One  day  I  was  returning  home  along  the  sea- 
shore. The  chase  had  been  brief.  .  .  .  Gog  had  over- 
taken the  hare  at  the  end  of  two  or  three  miles.  I 
was  coming  home  at  a  slow  gallop,  skirting  the  calm 
water.  Gog  was  galloping  beside  me,  keeping  up 
with  Cambyses,  jumping  up  now  and  then  towards 
the  game  that  hung  from  my  saddle,  and  barking. 
Suddenly,  on  seeing  a  dead  carcass  before  him,  my 
horse  started  to  one  side,  and  his  hoof  wounded  the 
dog,  who  began  howling,  holding  up  his  left  foreleg, 
which  seemed  broken  at  the  fetlock.  I  reined  in  the 
frightened  horse  with  some  difficulty,  and  went  back. 
But  as  Cambyses  saw  the  carcass  again,  he  shied  and 
bolted.     Then  it  became  a  furious   race  along  the 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  247 

downs.  With  what  emotion  I  cannot  tell  you,  I  heard 
in  a  few  minutes  the  hard  breathing  of  Gog  behind 
the  horse.  He  had  followed  me,  you  understand? 
In  spite  of  his  broken  leg,  moved  by  the  generosity 
of  his  blood,  forgetting  his  pain,  he  followed  me,  over- 
took me,  passed  me !  My  eyes  met  his  sweet,  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  while  I  strove  to  regain  my  mastery 
over  the  frightened  horse,  my  heart  broke  each  time 
I  saw  his  poor  wounded  leg  graze  the  ground.  I 
worshipped  him  at  that  moment,  I  worshipped  him. 
Do  you  think  me  capable  of  tears?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Myrta,  "even  of  tears." 

"Well,  when  my  sister  Sophia  began  dressing  the 
wound  with  her  thin  hands  on  which  the  tears  were 
dropping,  I  too,  I  think  —  " 

La  Foscarina  stood  beside  Donovan,  holding  him 
by  the  collar,  pale  again,  more  attenuated,  as  if  the 
chill  of  evening  were  already  beginning  to  penetrate 
her ;  the  shadow  of  the  bronze  cupola  was  lengthening 
on  the  grass,  on  the  hornbeams,  on  the  laurels;  a 
violet  moisture  in  which  the  last  atoms  of  the  sun's 
gold  were  swimming  spread  itself  among  the  stems 
and  branches  that  were  quivering  in  the  wind.  And 
once  more  their  ears  caught  the  twittering  in  the 
pine  tops  full  of  empty  cones. 

"  See,  we  are  yours,"  seemed  the  words  of  the 
woman,  while  the  greyhound,  seized  by  the  first 
shivers,  pressed  against  her  knees.  ."  We  are  yours 
for  ever;  we  are  here  to  serve  you." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  disquiets  and  kindles  me 
so  much  as  these  sudden  visions  of  the  virtue  of 
blood,"  said  the  young  man,  roused  by  the  memory 
of  that  hour  of  emotion. 


248  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

They  heard  the  prolonged  whistle  of  a  train  that 
was  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  lagoon.  A  breath 
of  wind  stripped  off  all  the  petals  of  a  large  white 
rose,  so  that  only  a  bud  remained  on  the  top  of  the 
stalk.  The  chilly  dogs  drew  near  one  another,  gather- 
ing together  one  against  the  other.  Their  slender 
bones  shivered  under  the  thin  skin,  and  the  melan- 
choly eyes  shone  in  the  long  heads  flat  as  the  heads 
of  reptiles. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Stelio,  of  the  way  in  which  a 
lady  belonging  to  the  best  blood  of  France  died  at  a 
hunting  party  where  I  was  present?"  Lady  Myrta 
asked  him.  The  tragic  image  and  the  pitiful  remem- 
brance had  been  reawakened  in  her  by  the  expres- 
sion she  had  caught  on  the  pale  face  of  la  Foscarina. 

"  No,  never;  who  was  she?  " 

"Jeanne  d'Elbeuf.  Through  her  own  imprudence 
or  inexperience,  or  that  of  the  man  who  rode  beside 
her,  she  was  shot,  nobody  ever  knew  by  whom,  to- 
gether with  the  hare,  which  passed  between  the  legs 
of  the  horse.  She  was  seen  to  fall.  We  all  hastened 
to  her,  and  found  her  on  the  grass,  steeped  in  blood, 
by  the  side  of  the  convulsed  hare.  In  the  silence  and 
dismay,  while  we  all  stood  there  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
while  not  one  of  us  had  yet  dared  to  speak  or  move, 
the  poor  creature  raised  one  hand  just  a  little,  point- 
ing to  the  wounded,  suffering  animal,  and  said  (never 
shall  I  forget  her  voice),  "  Tuez-le,  tuez-le,  mes  amis. 
.  .  .  ^a  fait  si  mal !"  ^     Then  died  at  once. 

Heart-rending  indeed  was  the  sweetness  of  the  late 
November  that  smiled  like  an  invalid  who  believes 
himself  to   be  convalescent   and   feels    an    unusual 

1  "  Kill  it,  kill  it,  my  friends,  it  hurts  so  I  * 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  249 

happiness    and    knows    not    that    his    agony   is    at 
hand ! 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  Fosca? 
What  has  happened?  Why  are  you  so  reserved 
with  me?     Tell  me!     Speak  to  me!  " 

Stelio  had  strolled  into  San  Marco  by  chance  and 
had  seen  her  there,  leaning  against  the  door  of  the 
chapel  that  leads  to  the  Baptistery.  She  was  alone, 
motionless,  her  face  devoured  by  fever  and  shadow, 
her  eyes  full  of  terror  fixed  on  the  terrible  figures 
flaming  in  the  yellow  fire  of  the  mosaics.  A  choir 
was  practising  behind  the  door;  the  chant,  inter- 
rupted every  now  and  then,  began  again  with  the 
same  cadence. 

"  Leave  me  alone,  I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you !  I 
must  be  alone.     I  implore  you  !  " 

The  sound  of  her  words  betrayed  the  dryness  of 
her  convulsed  mouth.  She  turned  as  if  to  fly.  He 
held  her  back. 

"  But  tell  me !  Say  one  word  at  least  that  I  may 
understand." 

Again  she  moved  as  if  to  draw  herself  away,  and 
her  movement  expressed  an  unspeakable  suffering. 
She  had  the  appearance  of  a  creature  lacerated  by 
torture,  wrenched  by  an  executioner.  She  seemed 
more  wretched  than  a  body  tied  to  the  rack,  tormented 
by  red-hot  pincers. 

"  I  implore  you.  If  you  are  sorry  for  me,  there 
is  only  one  thing  you  can  do  for  me  now;  let 
me  go.  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  very  low,  and  the  torture  of  her  shaken 
soul  was  so  evident  that  her  not  crying  out,  and  her 
throat's  not  giving  way  to  breathless  screams,  seemed 
inhuman. 


^o  THE  FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  But  one  word,  at  least  one,  that  I  may  under- 
stand." 

A  flash  of  fury  passed  over  the  perturbed  face. 

"  No !     I  want  to  be  let  alone." 

The  voice  was  as  hard  as  the  look.  She  turned, 
taking  a  few  steps  like  one  overtaken  by  dizziness 
hastening  to  some  support. 

"  Foscarina !  " 

But  he  dared  not  hold  her  back.  He  saw  the 
desperate  woman  walk  into  the  zone  of  sunlight  that 
had  invaded  the  basilica  with  the  rush  of  a  torrent 
through  the  door  that  an  unknown  hand  had  opened. 
The  deep  golden  cave  with  its  apostles,  with  its 
martyrs,  with  its  sacred  beasts,  sparkled  behind  her 
as  if  the  thousand  torches  of  the  day  were  pouring 
into  it.     The  chant  stopped,  then  began  again. 

"  I  am  drowning  in  my  sadness.  .  .  .  The  impulse 
to  rebel  against  my  fate,  to  go  away  aimlessly,  to 
search.  .  .  .  Who  will  save  my  hope?  From  whom 
will  light  come  to  me?  .  .  .  To  sing,  to  sing!  But 
I  would  sing  a  hymn  of  life  at  last.  .  .  .  Could  you 
tell  me  where  the  Lord  of  the  Flame  is  just  now?" 
The  words  of  Donatella  Arvale's  letter  were  branded 
on  her  eyes  and  branded  on  her  soul  with  all  the 
peculiarities  of  the  handwriting,  with  all  the  diversity 
of  signs  as  living  as  the  hand  that  had  penned  them, 
as  throbbing  as  the  impatient  pulse.  She  could  see 
them  engraved  in  the  stones,  outlined  in  the  clouds, 
reflected  in  the  waters,  indelible  and  inevitable,  like 
decrees  of  Fate. 

"  Where  can  I  go?  Where  can  I  go?  "  The  sweet- 
ness of  things,  the  warmth  of  the  golden  marbles,  the 
fragrance  of  the  quiet   air,   the   languor   of  human 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  251 

leisure,  reached  her  through  her  agitation  and  de- 
spair. She  looked  at  a  woman  of  the  people  wrapped 
in  her  brown  cloak  and  seated  on  the  steps  of  the 
basilica,  a  woman  who  was  neither  old  nor  young, 
neither  beautiful  nor  plain,  who  sat  enjoying  the  sun- 
shine, eating  a  large  piece  of  bread,  biting  pieces  out 
of  it  with  her  teeth  and  then  chewing  them  slowly, 
her  eyes  half  shut  as  she  savoured  her  contentment 
while  her  fair  lashes  shone  upon  her  cheeks.  "  Ah, 
if  I  could  change  myself  into  you,  take  on  your  des- 
tiny, be  content  with  bread  and  sunshine  and  think 
no  more  and  suffer  no  more."  The  poor  woman's 
repose  seemed  infinite  bliss  to  her. 

She  turned  with  a  start,  fearing,  hoping,  that  her 
lover  had  followed  her.  She  did  not  see  him.  She 
would  have  fled  if  she  had  seen  him ;  but  her  heart 
failed  her  as  if  he  had  sent  her  to  her  death  without 
calling  her  back.  "  All  is  over."  She  was  losing  all 
sense  of  measure  and  certainty.  The  thoughts  that 
passed  in  her  were  broken  and  confusedly  dragged 
on  by  anguish,  like  plants  and  stones  by  the  fury  of 
an  overflowing  river.  In  all  the  aspects  of  surround- 
ing things,  her  bewildered  eyes  saw  a  confirmation 
of  her  sentence  or  the  obscure  menace  of  new  evils, 
or  a  figuring  of  her  state,  or  the  signifying  of  occult 
truths  about  to  work  cruelly  on  her  existence.  At 
the  corner  of  San  Marco,  near  the  Porta  della  Carta, 
she  felt  the  four  porphyry  kings  clasping  each  other 
as  for  a  compact  while  their  tough  fists  grasp  the  hilt 
finishing  in  a  hawk's  beak,  live  as  if  they  had  been 
made  of  dark  blood.  The  numberless  veins  of  the 
various  marbles  with  which  the  side  of  the  temple  is 
encrusted,  those  indistinct  threads  of  different  colours, 


252  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

those  intertwined  labyrinths  and  meanders,  seemed  to 
make  her  own  interior  diversity  visible,  and  the  very 
confusion  of  her  thoughts.  In  turn,  she  felt  all  things 
estranged,  remote,  unexisting,  and  then  familiar,  ap- 
proaching her  and  participating  in  her  intimate  life. 
In  turn  she  seemed  to  find  herself  in  unknown  places 
and  among  forms  belonging  to  her  as  if  her  own 
substance  had  given  them  their  material  life.  Like 
those  who  are  dying,  she  was  at  intervals  illumined 
by  images  of  her  distant  childhood,  by  memories  of 
far-away  events,  by  the  distinct  and  rapid  apparition 
of  a  face,  a  gesture,  a  room,  a  whole  neighbourhood. 
And  above  all  these  phantoms,  in  a  background  of 
shadow  the  eyes  of  her  mother  seemed  gazing  on 
her,  kind  and  firm,  no  larger  than  human  eyes  while 
in  life,  yet  infinite  as  an  horizon  towards  which  she 
was  being  called.  "  Shall  I  come  to  you  ?  Are 
you  really  calling  me  for  the  last  time?" 

She  had  entered  the  Porta  della  Carta  and  had 
crossed  the  lobby.  The  intoxication  of  pain  was 
leading  her  back  to  the  place  where  on  a  night  of 
glory  the  three  Destinies  had  met.  She  sought 
the  well  which  had  been  their  meeting-place.  The 
whole  life  of  those  few  instants  rose  up  again  round 
its  bronze  rim  with  the  evidence  and  the  outline  of 
reality.  There  she  had  said  as  she  turned,  smiling,  to 
her  companion, "  Donatella,  here  is  the  Lord  of  the 
Flame."  The  immense  cry  of  the  multitude  had 
covered  her  voice  and  a  thousand  fiery  pigeons  had 
lit  up  the  sky  above  their  heads. 

She  drew  nearer  to  the  well.  Every  detail  of  it 
impressed  itself  on  her  spirit  as  she  stood  consider- 
ing it,  clothing  itself  with  a  strange  power  of  fateful 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  253 

life;  the  furrows  left  by  the  ropes  in  the  metal,  the 
green  oxide  that  streaked  the  stone  at  its  base,  the 
breasts  of  the  cariatides  worn  out  by  the  knees  of 
the  women  who  had  at  one  time  pressed  upon  them 
in  the  effort  of  drawing  water,  and  that  deep  inner 
mirror  no  longer  disturbed  by  the  shock  of  descend- 
ing pails,  that  narrow  subterranean  circle  that  reflected 
the  sky.  She  bent  over  the  edge,  saw  her  own  face, 
saw  her  terror  and  her  ruin,  saw  the  immovable 
Medusa  which  she  carried  in  the  centre  of  her  soul. 
Unconsciously  she  was  repeating  the  act  of  him 
whom  she  loved.  And  she  saw  his  face,  too,  and  the 
face  of  Donatella,  such  as  she  had  seen  them  shining 
for  an  instant  on  that  night,  one  close  to  the  other, 
lit  up  by  the  flashes  from  the  sky  as  if  they  had  been 
bending  over  a  furnace  or  a  crater.  "  Love,  love 
each  other !  I  will  go  away.  I  will  disappear. 
Good-bye."  Her  eyelids  dropped  over  the  thought 
of  death.  In  that  darkness  the  kind  firm  eyes  re- 
appeared, infinite  as  an  horizon  of  peace.  "  You 
who  are  in  peace  and  who  wait  for  me,  you  who 
lived  and  died  of  passion."  She  straightened  her- 
self. An  extraordinary  silence  filled  the  deserted 
courtyard.  The  wealth  of  the  high  carved  walls 
rested  half  in  the  shadow,  half  in  the  light ;  the  five 
mitres  of  the  basilica  surpassed  the  columned  cloister 
as  light  as  the  snowy  clouds  that  made  the  sky 
seem  more  blue,  the  same  as  the  jessamine  flower 
causes  the  leaf  to  seem  more  green.  Again  through 
her  torment  she  was  touched  by  the  sweetness  ol 
things.     "  Life  might  still  be  sweet." 

She  came  out  by  the  Molo,  stepped  into  a  gondola, 
had  herself  rowed  to  the  Giudecca.     The  harbour, 


254  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  Salute,  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  all  the  stone  and 
all  the  water,  were  a  miracle  of  gold  and  opal.  She 
looked  anxiously  towards  the  Piazzetta  lest  a  figure 
should  be  appearing  there.  The  image  of  dead  sum- 
mer dressed  in  gold  and  shut  in  a  coffin  of  opalescent 
glass  flashed  on  her  memory.  She  imagined  her 
own  self  submerged  in  the  lagoon  and  laid  out  on 
a  bed  of  seaweed,  but  the  memory  of  the  promise 
made  on  that  water  and  kept  in  the  night's  delirium, 
pierced  her  heart  like  a  knife,  threw  her  once  more 
into  a  horrible  convulsion.  "Never  more,  then? 
Never  more?"  All  her  senses  remembered  all  his 
caresses.  The  lips,  the  hands,  the  strength,  the  fire 
of  the  young  man,  passed  into  her  blood  as  if  they 
had  melted  in  her.  The  poison  burnt  into  her 
to  her  furthest  fibres.  With  him  she  had  found  at 
the  extreme  limit  of  pleasure  a  spasm  that  was  not 
death  and  yet  was  beyond  life.  "  And  now  never 
more?  never  more?" 

She  was  in  the  Rio  della  Croce.  The  foliage  grew 
above  a  red  wall.  The  gondola  stopped  at  a  closed 
door.  She  landed,  took  out  a  small  key,  opened  the 
door,  and  went  into  the  garden. 

It  was  her  refuge,  the  secret  place  of  her  solitude, 
preserved  by  her  faithful  melancholies  as  by  silent  cus- 
todians. All  came  forward  to  meet  her,  the  old  ones 
and  the  new  ones,  surrounded  her,  accompanied  her. 

With  its  long  trellises,  with  its  cypresses,  with  its 
fruit-trees,  with  its  edges  of  lavender,  its  oleanders, 
its  carnations,  its  rose-bushes  crimson  and  crocus 
coloured,  marvellously  soft  and  tired  in  the  colours 
of  its  dissolution,  that  garden  seemed  lost  in  the 
extreme  lagoon,  on  one  of  those  islands  forgotten  by 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  255 

man,  Mazzorbo,  Torcello,  San  Francesco  Deserto. 
The  sun  embraced  it  and  penetrated  it  on  every  side 
so  that  the  shadows  were  so  slight  as  to  be  hardly 
visible ;  so  great  was  the  stillness  of  the  air  that  the 
dry  vine  leaves  stayed  on  their  tendrils.  None  of 
the  leaves  fell;  though  all  were  dead. 

"Never  more?"  She  walked  under  the  trellises, 
went  towards  the  water,  stopped  on  the  grassy 
mound,  felt  tired,  sat  down  on  a  stone,  held  her 
temples  tightly  between  her  hands,  made  an  effort 
to  concentrate  herself,  to  recover  her  dominion  over 
herself,  to  consider,  to  deliberate.  "  He  is  still  here ; 
he  is  near  me.  I  can  see  him  again.  Perhaps  I 
shall  find  him  before  long  at  the  threshold  of  my 
door.  He  will  take  me  in  his  arms,  will  kiss  my 
eyes  and  lips,  will  tell  me  again  that  he  loves  me, 
that  everything  in  me  pleases  him.  He  does  not 
know,  does  not  understand.  Nothing  irreparable  has 
happened.  What,  then,  is  the  fact  that  has  convulsed 
and  broken  me?  I  have  received  a  letter  from  a 
woman  who  is  far  away,  a  prisoner  in  a  lonely  villa 
with  her  demented  father,  who  complains  of  her  lot 
and  longs  to  change  it.  This  is  the  fact.  There  is 
no  more.  This  is  the  letter."  She  looked  for  it  and 
opened  it  to  reread  it.  Her  fingers  trembled.  She 
felt  the  perfume  of  Donatella  as  if  she  had  had  her 
by  her  side  there  on  that  stone. 

"Is  she  beautiful?  Truly?  What  is  she  like?" 
The  lines  of  the  image  were  confused  at  first.  She 
tried  to  seize  them,  and  they  vanished.  One  detail 
before  any  of  the  others  fixed  itself,  becoming  pre- 
cise and  evident,  —  the  large  heavy  hand.  "  Did  he 
see  it  that  night?     He  is  extremely  sensitive  to  the 


256  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

beauty  of  hands.  He  always  looks  at  them  when  he 
meets  a  woman.  Does  he  not  love  Sophia's  hands?  " 
She  gave  herself  up  for  a  few  seconds  to  childish 
considerations  such  as  those,  then  smiled  at  them 
bitterly.  And  suddenly  the  image  completed  itself, 
grew  living,  shone  with  strength  and  youth,  overcame 
her,  dazzled  her.  *'  She  is  beautiful ;  and  hers  is  the 
beauty  which  he  would  have  her  possess." 

She  stayed  on  transfixed,  surrounded  by  the  silent 
splendour  of  the  waters,  with  the  letter  on  her  knees, 
nailed  there  by  the  inflexible  truth.  And  involuntary 
thoughts  of  destruction  flashed  above  that  inert  dis- 
couragement :  the  face  of  Donatella  was  burnt  in  a 
fire,  her  body  deformed  by  a  fall,  her  voice  quenched 
by  an  illness.  Horror  at  herself  filled  her,  and  then 
pity  for  herself  and  for  the  other  woman.  "Has 
she  not  also  the  right  of  living  .-*  Let  her  live,  let 
her  love,  let  her  have  her  joy."  She  imagined  some 
magnificent  adventure  for  her,  some  happy  love,  the 
love  of  a  bridegroom,  prosperity,  luxury,  pleasure. 
"  Is  there  only  this  one  man  on  earth  whom  she  can 
love }  To-morrow  could  she  not  meet  the  man  who 
is  to  take  her  heart?  Could  not  her  fate  suddenly 
turn  her  elsewhere,  draw  her  far  away,  lead  her  towards 
an  unknown  path,  separate  her  from  us  for  ever?  Is 
it  perhaps  necessary  that  she  should  be  loved  by  the 
man  whom  I  love?  They  may  perhaps  never  meet 
again."  Thus  she  tried  to  escape  her  own  presenti- 
ment, but  a  contrary  spirit  was  telling  her:  "They 
have  met  once ;  they  will  seek  each  other ;  they  will 
meet  again.  Hers  is  not  the  obscure  soul  that  can 
be  lost  in  a  crowd  or  along  a  side-path.  She  carries 
a  gift  in  herself  resplendent  as  a  star  and  that  will 


THE  EMPIRE  OF   SILENCE  257 

always  make  her  easy  to  recognise  from  afar:  her 
song.  The  miracle  of  her  voice  will  be  her  signal. 
She  will  certainly  avail  herself  of  this  power  in  the 
world ;  she  too  will  pass  among  men  leaving  wonder 
behind  her.  She  will  have  glory  as  she  has  beauty,  — 
two  signal  lights  to  which  he  will  easily  go.  They 
have  met  once;  they  will  meet  again." 

The  woman  cowered  down  under  her  pain  as  if 
under  a  yoke ;  the  threads  of  grass  at  her  feet  seemed 
to  withhold  the  rays  they  received,  and  to  breathe 
in  a  green  light  which  was  coloured  by  their  quiet 
transparency.  She  felt  the  tears  rise  to  her  eyes,  — 
gazed  through  that  veil  at  the  lagoon  which  trembled 
with  the  trembling  of  her  tears.  A  fair  pearly  light 
was  on  the  waters.  The  islands  of  the  Follia,  San 
Clementc  and  San  Servilio  were  wrapped  in  pale 
mist.  And  now  and  then  there  came  from  their  dis- 
tance faint  cries,  as  of  shipwrecked  men  lost  in  the 
calm,  answered  now  by  the  shriek  of  a  siren,  now  by 
the  hoarse  cry  of  the  scattered  sea-birds.  The  silence 
would  become  terrible,  then  it  would  soften  again. 
She  recovered  her  deep  goodness,  recovered  her  ten- 
derness for  the  beautiful  creature  with  whom  she  had 
deluded  her  desire  of  loving  Sophia,  the  kind  sister. 
She  thought  over  the  hours  spent  in  the  lonely  villa 
on  the  hill  of  Settignano,  where  Lorenzo  Arvale  cre- 
ated his  statues  in  the  fulness  of  his  strength  and 
fervour,  unconscious  of  the  thunderbolt  that  was 
about  to  strike  him.  She  lived  in  that  time  once 
more,  saw  those  places  again,  —  she  was  sitting  to  the 
famous  artist  who  was  portraying  her  in  his  clay. 
Donatella  would  sing  some  antique  song,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  song  would  animate  both  the  model  and 


258  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  effigy,  and  her  thoughts  and  the  pure  voice 
and  the  mystery  of  art  almost  composed  an  appear- 
ance of  divine  life  in  the  great  studio  open  to  the 
daylight  on  all  sides,  whence  Florence  and  its  river 
could  be  seen  in  the  spring  valley. 

What  if  not  the  reflection  of  Sophia  had  attracted 
her  towards  the  girl  who  had  been  deprived  of  a 
mother's  caresses  from  the  time  of  her  birth?  She 
called  her  up  to  her  memory  as  she  had  seen  her 
standing  grave  and  firm  at  her  father's  side,  the  com- 
forter of  his  great  work,  the  guardian  of  his  sacred 
flame  and  also  of  a  secret  determination  of  her  own 
that  was  being  preserved  like  a  sword  in  its  sheath, 
bright  and  sharp, 

"  She  is  sure  of  herself  and  mistress  of  her  own 
strength.  When  she  shall  feel  herself  free  to  do  it, 
she  will  reveal  herself  as  one  made  for  dominion. 
She  is  made  to  subject  men,  to  excite  their  curiosity 
and  their  dreams.  Her  instinct,  bold  and  prudent 
as  experience,  is  leading  her  already.  .  .  .  And  she 
remembered  her  attitude  towards  the  young  man  on 
that  night,  her  almost  disdainful  silence,  her  short, 
dry  words,  and  the  way  in  which  she  had  risen  from 
the  table,  left  the  supper-room,  and  disappeared  for 
ever,  leaving  her  image  framed  in  the  circle  of  an 
unforgettable  melody.  "  Ah,  she  knows  the  art  of 
disquieting  the  soul  of  one  who  dreams.  He  cannot 
certainly  have  forgotten  her.  On  the  contrary,  he 
certainly  awaits  the  hour  in  which  it  shall  be  given 
him  to  meet  her  again  as  impatiently  as  she  who  has 
asked  me  where  he  is." 

She  took  up  the  letter  and  began  glancing  through 
it,  but  her  memory  was  swifter  than  her  sight.     The 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  259 

enigmatic  question,  half  veiled,  was  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page  like  a  postscript.  On  seeing  the  handwrit- 
ing again,  she  went  through  the  same  tearing  of  her- 
self asunder  as  on  first  reading  it;  and  again  all 
became  upheaval  in  her  heart  as  if  the  danger  were 
imminent,  as  if  her  passion  and  her  hope  were  already 
irreparably  lost.  "What  is  she  going  to  do?  What 
is  her  thought?  Did  she  expect  that  he  would  seek 
her  out  without  delay,  and,  disappointed  in  her  ex- 
pectation, does  she  now  think  of  tempting  him? 
What  is  she  going  to  do?"  She  struggled  against 
that  uncertainty,  as  against  a  spiked  door  beyond 
which  the  light  of  her  life  should  lie  waiting  to  be 
reconquered.  "  Shall  I  answer?  And  if  I  answered 
in  a  way  that  would  make  her  understand  the  truth, 
could  my  love  lay  a  prohibition  on  hers?  "  A  move- 
ment of  repugnance,  modesty,  and  pride  uplifted  her 
soul.  "  She  shall  never,  never  know  of  my  wound 
from  me ;  never,  even  if  she  should  question  me." 
And  she  grasped  all  the  horror  of  an  open  rivalry 
between  the  ageing  mistress  and  the  maiden  strong 
with  the  strength  of  her  intact  youth.  She  saw  the 
cruelty  and  humiliation  of  the  unequal  struggle. 
"  But  if  it  were  not  this  one,"  an  opposing  spirit 
urged,  "would  it  not  be  another?  Do  you  think 
you  can  keep  a  man  of  his  nature  to  your  melancholy 
passion?  There  is  only  one  condition  on  which  you 
should  have  loved  him  and  offered  him  your  love, 
faithful  until  death,  and  that  was  the  prohibition 
which  you  have  broken." 

*'  True,  true,"  she  murmured,  as  if  she  were  an- 
swering a  distinct  voice,  —  a  clear  judgment  pro- 
nounced in  the  silence  by  invisible  destiny. 


26o  THE  FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  There  is  only  one  condition  on  which  he  will  now 
be  able  to  accept  and  recognise  your  love,  —  the  con- 
dition that  you  leave  him  free,  that  you  renounce 
possession,  that  you  give  up  all,  always,  asking  for 
nothing,  always ;  the  condition  of  being  yourself 
heroic.     Do  you  understand?" 

"  True,  true,"  she  repeated,  raising  her  forehead, 
all  her  moral  beauty  now  flashing  again  on  the  heights 
of  her  soul. 

But  the  poison  bit  her.  Once  more  all  her  senses 
remembered  all  his  caresses,  —  the  lips  and  hands, 
the  strength  and  fire  of  the  young  man  passed  into 
her  blood  as  if  they  were  melting  there.  And  she 
stayed  on,  motionless  in  her  malady,  dumb  in  her 
fever,  consumed  in  her  soul  and  in  her  flesh,  like 
those  red-spotted  vine  leaves  that  seemed  to  burn 
round  the  rims  like  waste  paper  thrown  on  the 
embers. 

A  distant,  changeless  song  began  vibrating  on  the 
air,  trembling  in  the  immense  stupor:  a  song  of 
women's  voices,  that  seemed  to  come  from  broken 
bosoms,  somewhat  similar  to  the  sounds  awakened 
from  the  snapped  wires  of  old  spinets  at  a  sudden 
touch  on  the  worn  keys,  faint  yet  shrill,  with  a  bright, 
vulgar  rhythm  that  was  sadder  in  that  light  and  still- 
ness than  the  saddest  things  of  life. 

"  Who  is  singing?  " 

With  obscure  emotion  she  rose,  drew  near  the 
shore,  strained  her  ear  to  listen. 

"  The  mad  women  of  San  Clemente !  " 

From  the  island  of  La  Follia,  from  the  light,  deso- 
late hospital,  from  the  barred  windows  of  the  terrible 
prison,  came  the  bright  yet  lugubrious  chorus.     It 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  261 

trembled,  hesitated  in  the  ecstatic  immensity,  became 
almost  childlike,  grew  fainter,  seemed  about  to  die 
away;  then  rose  up  strengthened,  shrieked,  became 
almost  piercing;  then  stopped  as  if  all  the  vocal 
chords  had  snapped  together ;  rose  once  more  like 
a  tortured  cry,  like  a  call  from  lost,  shipwrecked 
beings  who  have  seen  a  ship  pass  on  the  horizon, 
like  a  clamour  of  dying  creatures ;  then  it  dwindled, 
stopped,  did  not  rise  again. 


Heart-rending  indeed  was  the  sweetness  of  the 
late  November !  It  smiled  like  an  invalid  over  an 
interruption  in  his  pain,  who  knows  that  it  is  the  last, 
and  savours  of  life,  which  is  revealing  its  delicacies 
to  him  with  an  act  full  of  new  grace  while  on  the 
point  of  forsaking  him,  daily  slumber  resembles 
that  of  a  child  going  to  sleep  on  the  knees  of 
death. 

"  Look  at  the  Euganean  hills  down  there,  Fosca- 
rina ;  if  the  wind  rises  they  will  go  wandering  through 
the  air  like  veils,  they  will  pass  over  our  heads.  I 
have  never  seen  them  so  transparent.  .  .  .  One  day 
I  should  like  to  go  with  you  to  Arqucl;  the  villages 
down  there  are  as  rosy  as  the  shells  which  one  finds 
in  the  earth  in  myriads.  When  we  arrive,  the  first 
drops  of  a  fine  sun  shower  will  be  robbing  the  peach 
blossoms  of  a  few  petals.  We  will  stop  under  one  of 
the  arches  of  the  Palladio  to  keep  dry.  Then  we 
will  look  for  the  Fountain  of  Petrarch  without  asking 
our  way.  We  will  take  his  Rhymes  with  us  in  Mis- 
sirini's  small  type,  —  the  little  book  you  keep  by 
t   your  bedside  and  can  no  longer  close  now  because 


262  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

it  is  swollen  with  leaves  like  a  doll's  herbarium.  .  .  . 
Would  you  like  to  go  to  Arqua  some  spring  day?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him,  watching  only  the  lips 
that  said  these  delicate  things  and  hopelessly  enjoy- 
ing the  sound  and  their  motion  and  nothing  else, 
in  a  passing  manner.  She  found  the  same  distant 
spell  in  those  images  of  Spring  as  in  a  stanza  of 
Petrarch's,  but  she  could  place  a  marker  near  the 
one  and  find  it  again,  while  the  others  were  lost  with 
the  hour.  She  wanted  to  answer,  "  I  shall  not  drink 
at  that  fountain,"  but  remained  silent  that  she  might 
not  disturb  the  caress.  "  Oh,  yes,  give  me  illusions, 
illusions  !  You  must  play  your  own  game ;  you  must 
do  with  me  what  you  will." 

"  Here  we  are  at  San  Giorgio  in  Alga ;  we  shall  be 
at  Fusina  before  long." 

The  little  walled  island  passed  them  with  its  marble 
Madonna  perpetually  reflecting  herself  in  the  water 
like  a  nymph. 

"Why  are  you  so  sweet?  I  have  never  felt  you 
like  this  before.  One  is  out  of  one's  depth  with  you 
to-day.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  feeling  of  infinite 
melody  is  in  your  presence  to-day.  You  are  here  by 
my  side,  I  can  take  your  hand ;  and  yet  you  are  also 
diffused  in  the  horizon,  you  are  that  horizon  itself, 
with  the  waters,  with  the  islands,  with  the  hills  that  1 
would  climb.  When  I  was  speaking  to  you  a  little 
while  ago,  it  seemed  that  each  syllable  was  creating 
in  you  ever  widening  circles,  like  the  ones  round  that 
leaf  there  which  has  just  fallen  from  that  golden 
tree.  ...  It  is  true?  Tell  me  it  is  true.  Oh,  look 
at  me!" 

He  felt  himself  surrounded  by  the  woman's  love 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  263 

by  light  and  air;  he  breathed  in  that  soul  as  in  an 
ekment,  receiving  an  ineffable  fulness  of  life,  as  if  a 
single  stream  of  mysterious  things  were  flowing  from 
her  and  from  the  depths  of  the  day,  and  pouring  itself 
into  his  overflowing  heart.  The  desire  of  returning 
the  happiness  which  was  given  him  raised  him  to  an 
almost  religious  degree  of  gratitude,  suggesting  words 
of  thanks  and  of  praise  which  he  would  have  uttered 
had  he  been  bending  over  her  in  the  shadow.  But  the 
splendour  of  sky  and  water  had  become  so  great  all 
around  them  that  he  could  only  be  silent  as  she  was 
silent.  It  was  a  moment  of  marvellous  communion 
in  the  light  for  both ;  it  was  a  journey  brief  and  yet 
immense  during  which  both  compassed  the  dizzy 
distances  they  had  within  them. 

The  boat  touched  the  shore  of  Fusina.  They 
gazed  at  each  other  with  dazzled  eyes;  and  when 
their  feet  touched  the  ground,  when  they  saw  that 
squalid  bank  where  the  grass  grew  faded  and  rare,  a 
kind  feeling  of  loss  came  upon  them  that  was  like  a 
disappointment,  and  both  moved  unwillingly,  feeling 
in  those  first  steps  that  weight  of  their  bodies  which 
had  seemed  to  have  become  lighter  during  the  drive. 

"  Does  he  love  me,  then?  " 

Suffering  and  hope  revived  in  the  woman's  heart. 
She  did  not  believe  the  ecstasy  of  her  beloved  to 
be  other  than  sincere;  she  knew  that  his  words 
responded  to  an  inward  flame.  She  knew  how  en- 
tirely he  abandoned  himself  to  every  passing  wave 
that  touched  his  sensibility,  how  incapable  he  was  of 
dissimulation  or  falsehood.  She  had  more  than  once 
heard  him  utter  cruel  truths  with  the  same  feline  and 
flexible  grace  as  that  possessed  by  those  men  who 


264  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

are  given  to  fascinating.  She  well  knew  the  direct 
limpid  gaze  that  sometimes  became  icy  or  cutting, 
that  was  never  otherwise  than  straight ;  yet  she  also 
knew  the  marvellous  swiftness  and  diversity  of  thought 
and  feeling  that  made  his  an  unseizable  spirit.  In 
him  there  was  ever  something  voluble,  fluctuating 
and  powerful  that  suggested  the  double  and  diverse 
image  of  flame  and  of  water;  and  she  had  hoped  to 
fix  him,  hold  him,  possess  him.  In  him  there  was 
ever  an  unlimited  ardour  of  life  as  if  every  second 
seemed  the  supreme  one  to  him,  and  he  were  about 
to  take  his  leave  of  the  joy  and  pain  of  existence,  like 
from  the  caresses  and  the  tears  of  a  love-parting. 
And  she  would  have  attracted  that  insatiable  avidity 
to  herself  as  to  its  only  nourishment ! 

What  was  she  to  him,  if  not  an  aspect  of  that 
"  life  of  the  thousand  and  thousand  faces "  towards 
which  his  desire,  according  to  one  of  the  images  of 
his  own  poetry,  continually  shook  all  its  thyrsi? 
She  was  a  cause  of  visions  and  inventions  to  him, 
like  the  hills  and  the  woods  and  the  rain.  He  drank 
in  mystery  and  beauty  from  her  as  he  did  from  all 
the  forms  of  the  universe.  Even  now  he  was  already 
apart  from  her,  already  intent  on  some  new  quest; 
his  mobile  ingenuous  eyes  were  already  looking 
round  for  the  miracle  to  wonder  at  and  adore. 

She  glanced  at  him  and  he  did  not  turn  his  face 
towards  her,  intent  on  observing  the  damp  misty 
country  they  were  slowly  driving  through.  She  sat 
there  beside  him,  deprived  of  all  strength,  no  longer 
capable  of  living  in  herself  and  for  herself,  of  breath- 
ing with  her  own  breath,  of  following  a  thought  that 
should  be  outside  her  love,   hesitating  even  in  her 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  265 

enjoyment  of  natural  things  that  were  not  pointed 
out  by  him,  needing  to  wait  until  he  should  com- 
municate his  sensations  and  his  dreams  to  her  before 
inclining  her  aching  heart  towards  that  landscape. 

Her  life  seemed  to  be  dissolving  and  condensing 
itself  at  intervals.  When  the  intensity  of  a  second 
had  passed,  she  would  wait  for  the  next  one,  and 
between  one  and  the  other  she  would  have  no  per- 
ception except  that  time  was  flying  and  the  lamp 
was  burning  itself  out. 

"  My  friend,  my  friend,"  said  Stelio,  suddenly 
turning  and  taking  one  of  her  hands  with  an  emotion 
that  had  risen  to  his  throat  little  by  little  and  was 
suffocating  him, "  why  have  we  come  to  these  places? 
They  seem  so  sweet,  and  they  are  full  of  terror." 

He  was  looking  at  her  fixedly  with  the  look  that 
from  time  to  time  would  suddenly  appear  in  his  eyes 
like  a  tear,  —  a  look  that  would  touch  the  very  secret 
of  another's  existence  and  descend  to  the  uttermost 
depths  of  unconsciousness,  deep  as  that  of  an  old 
man,  deep  as  that  of  a  child,  and  she  trembled  under 
it  as  if  her  soul  had  been  one  of  the  tears  of  his 
eyes. 

"You  are  suffering?"  he  asked  with  a  pity  full  of 
anguish  that  turned  the  woman  pale.  "  You  feel  this 
terror?  " 

She  looked  round  with  the  anxiety  of  one  pursued. 
She  seemed  to  see  a  thousand  harmful  phantoms 
rising  from  the  fields. 

*'  Those  statues,"  said  Stelio,  with  an  expression  in 
his  voice  that  turned  them  in  her  eyes  into  witnesses 
of  her  own  decay. 

And  the  landscape  spread  silently  around  them  as 


266  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

if  all  its  inhabitants  had  deserted  it  for  centuries  or 
were  all  sleeping  in  new  graves  dug  only  yesterday. 

"Shall  we  go  back?     The  boat  is  still  there." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"  Answer  me,  Foscarina  !  " 

"  Let  us  go  on ;  let  us  go  on,"  she  answered.  "  Fate 
cannot  change  wherever  we  go." 

Her  body  followed  the  motion,  the  slow  rolling  of 
the  wheels,  and  she  feared  to  interrupt  it,  recoiling 
from  the  slightest  effort,  the  smallest  fatigue,  full  of  a 
heavy  inertness.  Her  face  was  like  the  delicate  veil 
of  ashes  that  covers  live  coal,  hiding  its  consumption. 

"  Dear,  dear  soul !  "  said  her  beloved,  bending 
towards  her  and  touching  her  pale  cheek  with  his  lips. 
"  Hold  on  to  me.  Give  yourself  up  to  me.  Be  sure 
of  me.  I  will  not  fail  you,  and  you  will  not  fail  me. 
We  shall  find,  we  must  find,  the  secret  truth  on  which 
our  love  may  rest  for  ever,  unchanged.  Do  not  shut 
yourself  up  from  me.  Do  not  suffer  alone.  Do  not 
try  to  hide  your  torment  from  me !  When  your 
heart  swells  with  pain,  speak  to  me.  Let  me  hope 
that  I  could  comfort  you.  Let  nothing  be  kept 
silent  between  us,  and  let  nothing  be  hidden.  I 
venture  to  remind  you  of  a  condition  that  you  your- 
self have  made.  Speak  to  me,  and  I  will  always  answer 
you  truthfully.  Suffer  me  to  help  you,  since  so  much 
good  comes  to  me  from  you.  Tell  me  that  you  are 
not  afraid  of  suffering.  I  believe  that  your  soul  is  ca- 
pable of  bearing  all  the  pain  of  the  world.  Do  notjet 
me  lose  my  faith  in  this,  the  strength  of  your  passion, 
by  which  you  have  seemed  divine  to  me  more  than 
once.  Tell  me  you  are  not  afraid  of  suffering.  .  .  . 
{   don't   know,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  .  .  .  But  I 


THE   EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  267 

have  felt  a  shadow  in  you,  a  desperate  determination 
as  it  were  to  go  away,  to  draw  yourself  back,  to  find 
some  end.  .  .  .  Why?  Why?  And  a  moment  ago, 
looking  at  all  this  terrible  desolation  which  is  smil- 
ing at  us,  a  great  fear  suddenly  gripped  my  heart: 
I  thought  that  perhaps  even  your  love  could  change 
like  all  else,  pass  away  into  dissolution.  '  You  will 
lose  me.'  Ah,  those  words  are  yours,  Foscarina.  It 
is  from  your  lips  they  fell." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  for  the  first  time  since  she 
loved  him  his  words  to  her  seemed  vain,  useless 
sounds  moving  in  the  air  quite  powerless.  For  the 
first  time  he  himself  seemed  a  weak  anxious  creature, 
governed  by  unbreakable  laws.  She  pitied  him  as 
much  as  herself.  He  was  laying  on  her  the  con- 
dition of  being  heroic,  a  compact  of  pain  and  violence. 
While  attempting  to  comfort  and  uplift  her,  he  was 
predicting  a  difficult  test,  preparing  her  for  torture. 
But  of  what  use  was  courage,  of  what  use  was  effort, 
what  were  all  miserable  human  agitations  worth ;  and 
why  did  they  ever  think  of  the  future,  of  the  uncertain 
to-morrow?  The  past  alone  reigned  around  them, 
and  they  were  as  nothing,  and  everything  was  as 
nothing.  "  We  are  dying;  you  and  I  are  two  dying 
creatures ;  let  us  then  dream  and  then  die." 

"  Be  silent !  "  she  said  faintly,  as  if  they  were  pass- 
ing through  a  churchyard ;  and  a  thin  slight  smile 
appeared  on  the  edge  of  her  lips  like  the  smile  that 
was  floating  over  the  landscape,  and  it  stopped  there 
motionless  as  on  the  lips  of  a  portrait. 

The  wheels  rolled  on  and  on  in  the  white  road 
along  the  banks  of  the  Brenta.  The  river,  magnified 
and  glorified  in  the  sonnets  of  gallant  abb6s  at  the 


268  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

time  when  barges  full  of  music  and  pleasure  slipped 
down  its  current,  now  had  the  humble  aspect  of  a 
canal,  where  the  blue-green  ducks  splashed  about  in 
flocks.  In  the  low  well-watered  plain,  the  fields  were 
smoking,  the  trees  rose  naked,  the  leaves  rotted  in 
the  moisture  of  the  earthy  mounds,  the  slow  golden 
vapour  floated  over  an  immense  vegetable  decom- 
position that  seemed  to  touch  even  the  walls,  the 
stones,  the  houses,  and  destroy  them  like  the  leaves. 
From  the  Foscara  to  the  Barbariga,  the  patrician 
villas,  where  a  life  of  pale  veins,  delicately  poisoned 
by  cosmetics  and  perfumes,  had  flickered  out  in 
languid  games  round  a  beauty  spot  or  a  little  dog, 
were  falling  into  ruins,  silent  and  forsaken.  Some 
had  the  appearance  of  a  human  ruin,  with  their 
empty  apertures  that  seemed  eyeless  sockets  and 
toothless  mouths ;  others  at  first  sight  seemed  on  the 
point  of  crumbling  to  bits  and  falling  into  powder 
like  the  hair  of  dead  women  when  tombs  are  un- 
covered, like  moth-eaten  garments  when  cupboards 
are  opened  that  have  been  too  long  closed ;  their 
boundary  walls  were  knocked  down,  their  columns 
broken,  their  gates  contorted,  their  gardens  overrun 
with  weeds,  but  here  and  there,  near  and  far,  all  over 
in  the  fruit  orchards,  in  the  vineyards,  among  the 
silvery  cabbages,  among  the  vegetables,  among  the 
pastures,  on  the  heaps  of  manure  and  refuse  from 
the  wine-press  under  the  hay-ricks,  on  the  threshold 
of  hovels  and  all  along  the  river-side,  rose  the  surviv- 
ing statues.  They  were  numberless  like  a  dispersed 
people.  Some  still  white,  some  grey  or  yellow  with 
lichens  or  greenish  with  mosses,  or  spotted  ;  in  all  at- 
titudes, with  all  gestures.  Goddesses,  Heroes,  Nymphs, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  269 

Seasons,  Hours,  with  their  bow,  with  their  arrows, 
their  garlands,  their  cornucopias,  their  torches,  with 
all  the  emblejns  of  their  riches,  power,  and  pleasure, 
exiled  from  fountains,  grottoes,  labyrinths,  harbours, 
porticoes ;  friends  of  the  evergreen  box  and  myrtle, 
protectors  of  passing  loves,  witnesses  of  eternal  vows, 
figures  of  a  dream  far  older  than  the  hands  that  had 
formed  them  and  the  eyes  that  had  seen  them  in  the 
ravaged  gardens.  And  in  the  soft  late  summer  sun 
their  shadows,  lengthening  little  by  little  over  the 
landscape,  were  like  the  shadows  of  the  irrevocable 
past,  of  all  that  which  loves  no  longer,  laughs  and 
weeps  no  longer,  will  never  live,  will  never  return 
again.  And  the  silent  words  on  their  lips  of  stone 
were  the  same  as  the  words  spoken  by  the  im- 
movable smile  on  the  lips  of  the  worn-out  woman,  — 
Nothing  ! 


They  became  acquainted  with  other  fears  that  day, 
other  shadows. 

Henceforth  the  tragic  sense  of  life  filled  them  both, 
and  they  strove  in  vain  to  overcome  the  physical 
sadness  which  made  their  spirits  become  every  mo- 
ment clearer  and  more  disquieted.  They  held  each 
other's  hands  as  if  they  had  been  walking  in  the  dark, 
or  through  perilous  places.  Their  words  were  rare ; 
but  now  and  then  they  would  look  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  the  glance  of  the  one  would  pour  a  con- 
fused wave  into  the  other,  which  was  only  the  over- 
flowing of  their  love  and  horror;  and  it  did  not  ease 
their  hearts. 

"  Shall  we  go  on?" 


270  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

**  Yes,  let  us  go  on." 

They  were  holding  each  other's  hands  tightly  as  H 
making  some  strange  experiment,  as  if  they  were 
determined  to  find  out  what  depths  could  be  reached 
by  the  forces  of  their  mingled  melancholy.  At  the 
Dolo  their  footsteps  crackled  on  the  chestnut  leaves 
which  strewed  the  way;  and  the  great  trees  that 
were  changing  colour  flamed  upon  their  heads  like 
crimson  hangings  on  fire.  Further  off,  the  Villa 
Barbariga  appeared,  lonely,  desolate,  reddish  in  its 
bare  garden,  bearing  traces  of  old  paintings  in  the 
fissures  of  its  frontage  that  were  like  remains  of 
rouge  in  the  wrinkles  of  an  old  woman.  And  at 
every  glance  the  distances  of  the  landscape  became 
dimmer  and  more  blue,  like  things  that  are  being 
slowly  submerged. 

"  Here  is  Str^." 

They  went  down  to  the  villa  of  the  Pisani ;  they 
entered ;  they  visited  the  deserted  apartments  accom- 
panied by  the  caretaker.  They  heard  the  sound  of 
their  steps  on  the  marble  that  mirrored  them,  the 
echo  in  the  ornamented  arches,  the  groan  of  the  doors 
as  they  were  opened  and  shut,  the  tedious  voice 
awakening  the  memories  of  the  place.  The  rooms 
were  vast,  hung  with  faded  stuffs,  furnished  in  the 
style  of  the  first  Empire,  bearing  the  Napoleonic 
emblems.  In  one  of  the  rooms  the  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  the  portraits  of  the  Pisani,  procurators  of 
San  Marco ;  in  another,  with  marble  medallions  of  all 
the  doges ;  in  another,  with  a  series  of  flowers  painted 
in  water-colour  and  mounted  in  delicate  frames,  pale 
as  the  dried  flowers  that  are  put  under  glass  in 
memory  of  a  love  or  a  death. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  271 

In  another  la  Foscarina  said  as  she  entered ;  — 

"  Wiik  time!     Here  too." 

There,  on  a  bracket,  was  a  translation  into  marble 
of  the  figure  of  Francesco  Torbido,  made  more  horri- 
ble by  the  subtle  study  of  the  sculptor  to  bring  out 
with  his  chisel,  one  by  one,  the  wrinkles,  the  veins, 
the  hollows.  And  at  the  doors  of  the  room  there 
seemed  to  appear  the  phantoms  of  the  crowned 
women  who  had  concealed  their  decay  and  their 
misery  in  that  spacious  dwelling  that  was  like  a 
palace  and  like  a  monastery. 

"Maria  Luisa  of  Parma,  in  18 17,"  continued  the 
tedious  voice. 

And  Stelio :  — 

"  Ah,  the  Queen  of  Spain,  the  wife  of  Charles  IV., 
the  mistress  of  Manuel  Godof !  This  one  attracts  me 
above  all  the  others.  She  passed  by  this  place  at  the 
time  of  their  exile.  Do  you  know  whether  she  stayed 
here,  with  the  King  and  the  favourite?" 

The  custodian  only  knew  the  name  and  date. 

"Why  does  she  attract  you?"  asked  la  Foscarina. 
"  I  know  nothing  about  her." 

"  Her  end,  the  last  years  of  her  life  as  an  exile  after 
so  much  passion  and  so  many  struggles  are  unusually 
full  of  poetry." 

And  he  described  to  her  the  violent,  tenacious 
figure,  the  weak,  credulous  King,  the  handsome 
adventurer  who  had  enjoyed  the  favours  of  the 
Queen,  and  had  been  dragged  through  the  streets 
by  a  furious  crowd,  the  agitation  of  the  three  lives 
bound  up  by  fate  and  driven  like  twigs  in  a  whirl- 
wind before  the  will  of  Napoleon,  the  tumult  at 
Aranjuez,  the  abdication,  the  exile. 


272  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  GodoT  then,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  as  the  King 
had  called  him,  faithfully  followed  the  sovereigns 
into  exile ;  was  faithful  to  his  royal  mistress  and  she 
to  him.  And  they  lived  together  under  the  same 
roof  always,  and  Charles  never  suspected  the  virtue 
of  Maria  Luisa,  and  lavished  his  kindness  on  both 
lovers  until  death.  Imagine  their  residence  in  this 
place ;  imagine  here  such  a  love  having  come  safely 
out  of  so  terrible  a  hurricane.  All  was  snapped, 
overthrown;  all  had  crumbled  to  dust  under  the 
might  of  the  destroyer.  Bonaparte  had  passed  that 
way  and  had  not  suffocated  that  love,  already  grey, 
under  the  ruins  he  left  behind !  The  fidelity  of 
these  two  violent  ones  touches  me  as  much  as  the 
credulity  of  the  gentle  King.  They  grew  old  in  this 
manner.  Think!  The  Queen  died  first,  then  the 
King ;  and  the  favourite,  who  was  younger  than  they, 
lived  some  few  years  more,  a  wanderer.  .  .  ." 

"  This  is  the  Emperor's  room,"  said  the  custodian, 
solemnly,  throwing  open  a  door.  The  great  shade 
seemed  to  be  omnipresent;  the  sign  of  his  power 
dominated  from  above  all  the  pale  relics  collected 
there.  But  in  the  yellow  room  it  occupied  the  vast 
bed  and  stretched  itself  out  under  the  canopy,  be- 
tween the  four  posts  surmounted  by  gilded  flames. 
The  formidable  sigla  between  the  crown  of  laurels 
shone  upon  the  bolster;  and  that  kind  of  funereal 
couch  was  prolonged  in  the  dim  mirror  that  hung 
between  the  two  Victories  supporting  the  candelabra. 

"  Did  the  Emperor  sleep  in  this  bed?  "  asked  the 
young  man  of  the  custodian  who  was  showing  him, 
on  the  wall,  the  efiigy  of  the  condottiere  mantled 
with   ermine,   and    wreathed   with  laurel  as  he    ap- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  273 

peared  at  the  coronation  blessed  by  Pius  VII.    "  Is 
it  certain?  " 

He  was  astonished  at  not  having  felt  the  emotion 
produced  on  ambitious  hearts  by  the  traces  of  heroes, 
the  deep  throb  which  he  well  knew.  Perhaps  his 
spirit  was  stunned  by  the  odour  of  the  shut-up 
place,  the  stuffiness  of  old  materials  and  mattresses, 
the  dulness  of  the  silence  where  the  great  name 
found  no  echo,  whilst  the  buzzing  of  a  moth  per- 
sisted so  distinctly  that  he  thought  he  had  it  in 
his  ear. 

He  raised  the  hem  of  the  yellow  coverlet  and  let 
it  fall  as  quickly  as  if  the  pillow  beneath  it  had  been 
full  of  worms. 

"  Let  us  go ;  let  us  go  out,"  begged  la  Foscarina, 
who  had  been  looking  through  the  windows  at  the 
park,  where  the  tawny  bands  of  the  slanting  sun 
alternated  with  half  blue,  half  green  zones  of  shadow. 
*'  One  cannot  breathe  here." 
The  air  was  like  that  of  a  crypt. 
"  Now  we  pass  into  the  room  of  Maximilian  of 
Austria,"  continued  the  tedious  voice,  "  who  caused 
his  bed  to  be  put  in  the  dressing-room  of  Amalia 
Beauharnais." 

They  crossed  the  room  in  a  glare  of  crimson.  The 
sun  was  beating  on  a  crimson  sofa,  making  rainbows 
in  a  frail  chandelier  with  crystal  drops  that  hung  from 
the  ceiling,  kindling  the  perpendicular  red  lines  on 
the  wall.  Stelio  paused  on  the  threshold,  calling  to 
life,  as  he  looked  back  into  the  blood-like  resplen- 
dence, the  pensive  figure  of  the  young  blue-eyed 
archduke,  the  fair  flower  of  Hapsburg,  fallen  on  bar- 
baric ground  one  summer  morning. 


2;4  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

"  Let  us  go,"  again  cried  la  Foscarina,  as  she  saw 
he  was  again  delaying. 

She  was  hurrying  away  across  the  immense  hall 
which  Tiepolo  had  decorated  ;  behind  her,  the  bronze 
gate  made  in  shutting  a  clear  sound  like  the  tinkling 
of  a  bell  that  spread  itself  through  the  emptiness 
in  long  vibrations.  She  was  hurrying  away  in  dis- 
tress, as  if  all  were  about  to  crash  down  upon  her, 
and  the  light  were  about  to  fail,  and  she  feared  to 
find  herself  alone  in  the  dark  with  those  phantoms  of 
misery  and  death.  As  he  passed  through  the  air  set 
in  motion  by  her  flight,  between  those  walls  full  of 
relics,  behind  the  famous  actress  who  had  simulated 
the  fury  of  deadly  passions,  the  desperate  efforts  of 
will  and  desire,  the  violent  shock  of  proud  destinies 
on  every  stage  in  the  world,  Stelio  Effrena  lost  the 
heat  of  his  veins  as  if  he  were  moving  in  a  frozen 
wind ;  he  felt  his  heart  grow  icy,  his  courage  fainter; 
his  reason  for  living  lost  all  strength,  his  bonds  with 
beings  and  things  loosened ;  and  the  magnificent  illu- 
sions which  he  had  given  his  soul  that  it  might 
surpass  itself  and  his  destiny  trembled  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  Are  we  alive  still  ?  "  he  said,  when  they  found 
themselves  in  the  open,  in  the  park,  far  from  the 
grim  odour. 

And  he  took  the  woman  by  the  hands,  shook  her 
slightly,  looked  into  the  depths  of  her  eyes,  tried  to 
smile ;  then  he  led  her  towards  the  sunshine  on  the 
grass  of  the  meadow. 

"  How  warm  it  is !     Do  you  feel?     How  good  the 


grass  IS 


He  half  closed  his  eyes,  so  that  he  might  feel  the 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  275 

rays  upon  his  eyelids,  once  more  suddenly  seized  by 
the  joy  of  life.  She  imitated  him,  soothed  by  her 
friend's  enjoyment,  looking  from  under  her  eyelids 
at  his  fresh,  sensual  mouth.  They  remained  thus 
for  some  time  hand  in  hand,  with  their  feet  in  the 
grass  under  the  sun's  caresses,  feeling  the  blood  in 
their  veins  throbbing  in  the  silence  as  the  streams 
become  more  rapid  when  the  frost  breaks  up  in 
spring.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  Euganean 
hills,  to  the  villages  rosy  as  fossil  shells,  to  the  first 
drops  of  rain  falling  upon  young  leaves,  to  the  foun- 
tain of  Petrarch,  to  all  pleasant  things. 

"  Life  could  still  be  sweet,"  she  sighed,  and  her 
voice  was  the  miracle  of  hope  being  born  anew. 

The  heart  of  her  beloved  became  like  a  fruit  sud- 
denly ripened  and  melted  by  a  miraculous  ray  of 
warmth.  Joy  and  goodness  spread  through  his  spirit 
and  his  flesh.  Once  again  he  enjoyed  the  moment 
like  one  about  to  depart.  Love  was  exalted  above 
destiny. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?     Tell  me." 

The  woman  did  not  reply;  but  her  eyes  opened 
wide,  and  all  the  vastness  of  the  universe  was  in  the 
circle  of  her  pupils.  Never  was  immense  love  more 
powerfully  signified  by  any  earthly  creature. 

"  Life  is  sweet,  sweet  with  you,  for  you,  yesterday 
as  to-morrow !  " 

He  seemed  intoxicated  with  her,  with  the  sun,  the 
grass,  the  divine  sky,  as  with  things  never  seen  be- 
fore, never  possessed.  The  prisoner  going  out  at 
dawn  from  the  suffocating  prison,  the  convalescent 
who  sees  the  sea  for  the  first  time  after  having  seen 
death,  are  less  intoxicated  than  he  was. 


276  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go?  Shall  we  leave  melancholy 
behind  us?  Shall  we  go  away  to  countries  where 
there  is  no  autumn?" 

"  The  autumn  is  in  myself,  and  I  must  carry  it 
with  me  wherever  I  go,"  she  thought,  but  she  smiled 
her  slight,  concealing  smile.  "  It  is  I,  I  who  will  go 
away ;  I  will  disappear ;  I  will  go  and  die  far  away, 
my  love,  my  love  !  " 

She  had  not  succeeded  during  that  pause  in  over- 
coming her  sadness,  nor  in  renewing  her  hope,  yet 
her  sorrow  had  softened,  had  lost  all  acrimony,  all 
rancour, 

"  Shall  we  go  away  ?  " 

"  To  go  away,  to  be  always  going  away,  aimlessly 
through  the  world,  to  go  far  away !  "  thought  the 
wandering  woman.  "  Never  to  rest,  never  to  be  at 
peace  !  The  anxiety  of  the  journey  is  not  over,  and, 
see,  the  truce  has  expired.  You  wish  to  comfort  me, 
dear  friend,  and  in  order  to  comfort  me  you  are  pro- 
posing that  we  should  go  far  away  again,  when  I  re- 
turned home  only  yesterday  !  " 

Suddenly  her  eyes  became  like  springs  of  living 
water. 

"  Leave  me  to  my  home  a  little  longer.  And  you, 
remain  if  you  can.  After,  you  will  be  free,  you  will 
be  happy.  .  .  .  You  have  so  much  time  before  you  I 
You  are  young.  You  will  have  what  is  due  to  you. 
They  who  expect  you  will  not  lose  you." 

Her  eyes  wore  two  crystal  masks,  which  glittered 
in  the  sun  in  her  feverish  face. 

'•  Ah,  always  the  same  shadow  !  "  exclaimed  Stelio, 
complainingly,  with  an  impatience  which  he  could 
not  control.     "  But  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?    What 


THE  EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  277 

do  you  fear?  Why  do  you  not  tell  me  what  is 
troubling  you?  Let  us  talk,  then.  Who  is  it  that 
expects  me  ? " 

She  trembled  with  apprehension  at  that  question, 
which  appeared  new  and  unforeseen,  although  her 
last  words  were  repeated  in  it.  She  trembled  at  find- 
ing herself  so  near  danger;  a  precipice  seemed  to 
have  opened  under  her  feet  as  they  walked  on  the 
beautiful  grass. 

"  Who  is  it  that  expects  me?" 

Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  in  that  strange 
place,  on  that  beautiful  meadow,  after  so  many  ap- 
paritions of  spectres,  sanguinary  and  bloodless,  there 
rose  up  a  wilful  form  alive  with  desire  which  filled 
her  with  even  greater  terror.  Suddenly,  at  one  stroke, 
above  all  those  figures  of  the  past  there  rose  a  figure 
which  was  the  future ;  and  the  semblance  of  life  was 
transformed  anew,  and  the  benefit  of  that  brief  pause 
was  lost  already,  and  the  good  grass  under  her  feet 
was  henceforth  valueless. 

"  Yes,  let  us  talk,  if  you  wish  it.  .  .  .    Not  now.  .  .  ." 

Her  throat  contracted  so  that  her  voice  could 
hardly  pass  through  it,  and  she  held  her  face  a  little 
raised  that  her  eyelids  might  keep  her  tears  from 
falling. 

"Don't  be  sad!  Don't  be  sad!"  begged  the  young 
man,  his  soul  suspended  on  her  lids  like  those  tears 
that  would  not  fall.  "  You  have  my  heart  in  your 
hands.  I  will  not  fail  you.  Do  not  torment  yourself. 
I  am  yours." 

Donatella  was  there  for  him  too  tall,  with  her 
curved  figure,  with  the  agile,  robust  body  of  a  wing- 
less victory,  fully  armed  with  her  virginity,  attractive 


2/8  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  hostile,  ready  to  struggle  and  to  give  herself. 
But  his  soul  hung  on  the  eyelids  of  this  other  woman, 
like  the  tears  that  veiled  those  pupils  in  which  he 
had  seen  the  immensity  of  love. 

"  Foscarina !  " 

The  hot  drops  fell  at  last,  but  she  did  not  let  them 
flow  down  her  cheeks.  With  one  of  those  gestures 
that  often  sprang  from  her  sorrow  with  the  unex- 
pected grace  of  a  wing  that  is  being  set  free,  she 
stopped  them,  moistened  her  fingers  with  them,  and 
spread  them  over  her  temples  without  drying  them. 
And  while  she  thus  left  her  tears  upon  herself  she 
tried  to  smile, 

"  Forgive  me,  Stelio,  if  I  am  so  weak." 

Then,  desperately,  he  loved  the  delicate  marks  that 
went  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  to  her  moistened 
temples  and  the  small  dark  veins  that  made  her  eye- 
lids like  violets  and  the  undulation  of  her  cheeks 
and  the  worn  chin  and  all  that  seemed  touched  by 
the  malady  of  autumn,  all  the  shadow  of  that  im- 
passioned face. 

"  Ah,  dear  fingers !  Beautiful  as  the  fingers  of 
Sophia  !     Let  me  kiss  them  as  they  are,  still  wet !  " 

He  was  drawing  her  over  the  meadow  in  his  caress 
to  a  belt  of  golden  green.  Lightly,  holding  his  arm 
under  hers,  he  kissed  her  finger-tips  one  by  one. 
They  were  more  delicate  than  the  unopened  buds 
of  flowers.  She  was  quivering.  He  could  feel  hef 
shudder  at  each  touch  of  his  lips. 

"  They  are  salt !  " 

"Come,  Stelio,  some  one  will  see  us." 

"  There  is  nobody  here." 

"  Down  there  in  the  greenhouses." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  279 

"  There  is  not  a  sound,  listen ! " 

"  How  strange  the  silence  is  !     It  is  ecstasy  I " 

"  One  could  hear  the  falling  of  a  leaf." 

"And  that  keeper?" 

"  He  must  have  gone  to  meet  some  other  visitor." 

"Who  would  come  here?  " 

"  I  know  that  the  other  day  Richard  Wagner  came 
with  Daniela  von  Billow." 

"  Ah,  the  niece  of  Countess  Agoult  and  of  Daniel 
Stern." 

"  With  which  of  these  phantoms  did  the  great  ail- 
ing heart  converse?  " 

"Who  knows?" 

"  Only  perhaps  with  himself." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Look  at  the  glass  of  the  conservatories,  how  it 
shines.  It  is  irradiated.  Time,  rain,  and  sunshine 
have  so  painted  it.  Does  it  not  seem  to  reflect  a 
distant  twilight?  Have  you  ever  stopped  on  the 
Fondamenta  Pesaro  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful 
petafore  window  of  the  evangelists?  If  you  raised 
your  eyes  you  could  see  the  windows  of  the  palace 
marvellously  painted  by  atmospheric  vicissitudes." 

"  Do  you  then  know  all  the  secrets  of  Venice?  " 

"  Not  all  yet." 

"  How  warm  it  is  here !  See  how  large  those 
cedars  are." 

"  There  is  a  swallow's  nest  there  hanging  on  that 
beam.  The  swallows  have  gone  away  late  this 
year." 

"  Will  you  really  take  me  in  spring  to  the  Euganean 
hills?" 

"  Yes,  Fosca,  I  should  like  to." 


28o  THE  FLAME  OF   LIFE 

*'  How  far  away  spring  is !  " 

"  Life  can  still  be  sweet." 

"  We  are  dreaming." 

"  Orpheus  with  his  lyre,  all  dressed  in  lichens." 

"  Ah,  what  a  pathway  of  dreams  I  Nobody  passes 
us.  Grass,  grass  everywhere.  There  is  not  a  foot- 
step." 

"  Deucalion  with  his  stones,  Ganymede  with  the 
eagle,  Diana  with  the  stag,  the  whole  of  mythology." 

*'  How  many  statues !  But  these  at  least  are  not 
in  exile ;  the  old  hornbeams  still  enclose  them." 

"  Here  Maria  Luisa  used  to  stroll  between  the 
King  and  the  Favourite.  She  would  stop  at  inter- 
vals, to  listen  to  the  click  of  the  shears  that  were 
cutting  the  hornbeams  into  arches.  She  would  let 
drop  her  pocket  handkerchief,  perfumed  with  jessa- 
mine, and  Manuel  Godoi  would  pick  it  up  with  a  still 
graceful  movement,  dissimulating  the  pain  in  his  hip 
when  he  bent  down,  that  had  stayed  with  him  as  a 
memento  of  the  tortures  suffered  in  the  streets  of 
Aranjuez  at  the  hands  of  the  mob.  As  the  sun  was 
warm  and  the  snuff  excellent  in  its  enamelled  box,  the 
uncrowned  king  would  say  with  a  smile :  '  Ah,  dear 
Bonaparte  is  certainly  not  so  well  off  at  St.  Helena.* 
But  the  demon  of  power,  of  struggle  and  of  passion, 
would  reawaken  in  the  heart  of  the  Queen.  .  .  ,  Look 
at  the  red  roses." 

"  They  are  flaming.  They  seem  to  have  a  live 
coal  at  the  heart.     They  are  flaming  really." 

"  The  sun  is  becoming  crimson.  This  is  the  hour 
of  the  Chioggia  sails  on  the  lagooa." 

"  Pick  me  a  rose  I  " 
"  Here  it  is  1 " 


THE   EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  281 

**  Oh,  its  leaves  are  falling !  " 

*'  Here  is  another !  " 

**  Its  leaves  are  falling  too." 

"  They  are  all  at  death's  door.  Here,  perhaps  this 
one  is  not." 

"  Do  not  pick  it." 

"  Look !  they  become  more  and  more  red.  Boni- 
fazio's  velvet.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember?  It  is  the 
same  strength." 

"  The  inner  flower  of  the  flame," 

*'  What  a  memory !  " 

"  Hark !  the  doors  of  the  conservatory  are  being 
shut." 

"  It  is  time  to  turn  back." 

"  The  air  is  already  getting  cooler.** 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  Have  you  left  your  cloak  in  the  carriage?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  We  will  wait  at  the  Dolo,  for  the  passage  of  the 
train.     We  will  return  to  Venice  by  train." 

"  Yes." 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  still.** 

"What  is  this?     Look!" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  What  a  bitter  smell !  A  shrubbery  of  box  and 
hornbeams.  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  it  must  be  the  labyrinth." 

A  rusty  iron  gate  shut  it  in  between  two  pillars 
that  bore  two  Cupids  riding  stone  dolphins.  Nothing 
was  visible  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate,  except 
the  beginning  of  the  path  and  a  kind  of  hard  intri- 
cate thicket,  dense  and  mysterious.     A  tower  rose 


282  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

from  the  centre  of  the  maze,  and  the  statue  of  a 
warrior  stood  as  if  reconnoitring  at  the  top  of  the 
tower. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  a  labyrinth?"  Stelio 
inquired  of  his  friend. 

"  No,  never,"  she  answered. 

They  paused  a  moment  to  watch  the  deceiving 
game  composed  by  some  ingenious  gardener  for  the 
delight  of  the  ladies  and  their  gallants  in  the  days  of 
hoops  and  patches,  but  neglect  and  age  had  turned  it 
wild  and  desolate,  had  taken  from  it  all  prettiness 
and  regularity,  had  changed  it  into  an  enclosed 
wood  brown  and  yellowish,  full  of  inextricable  mazes 
where  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sunset  shone  so  red 
that  some  of  the  bushes  here  and  there  were  like 
burning,  smokeless  bonfires. 

"  It  is  open)"  said  Stelio,  feeling  the  gate  yield 
when  he  leaned  against  it.     "  Do  you  see?" 

He  pushed  the  rusty  iron  that  creaked  on  the 
loose  hinges,  then  took  one  step  forward,  crossing 
the  threshold. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  said  his  companion,  with 
instinctive  fear,  stretching  out  her  hand  to  hold  him 
back. 

"  Shall  we  not  go  in?  " 

She  stood  perplexed.  But  the  labyrinth  at- 
tracted them  with  its  mystery,  illumined  by  its  deep 
flame. 

"  What  if  we  lose  ourselves?" 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  It  is  quite  small.  We  shall 
easily  find  the  way  out." 

"  What  if  we  don't  find  it?" 

He  laughed  at  her  childish  fear. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  283 

*'  We  shall  stay  in  it,  wandering  round  for  ever." 

"  There  is  nobody  in  the  neighbourhood.  No,  no, 
let  us  go  away." 

She  tried  to  draw  him  back.  He  defended  him- 
self, going  backwards  towards  the  path.  Suddenly 
he  disappeared,  laughing. 

"  Stelio,  Stelio  !  " 

She  no  longer  saw  him,  but  she  could  hear  his 
laugh  pealing  in  the  wild  maze. 

"  Come  back,  come  back  1 " 

"  Come  and  find  me." 

"  Stelio,  come  back  !     You  will  lose  yourself." 

"  I  shall  find  Ariadne." 

She  felt  her  heart  leap  at  that  name,  then  con- 
tract, suffering  confusedly.  Had  he  not  called  Dona- 
tella by  that  name  on  that  first  evening?  Had  he 
not  called  her  Ariadne,  there  on  the  water,  while 
sitting  at  her  knee?  She  even  remembered  the 
words :  "  Ariadne  possesses  a  divine  gift  by  which 
her  power  transcends  all  limits."  She  remembered 
his  accent,  his  attitude,  his  look. 

Tumultuous  anguish  convulsed  her,  dimmed  her 
reason,  prevented  her  from  considering  the  chance 
spontaneity  of  the  present  occasion,  from  recognis- 
ing her  friend's  unconsciousness.  The  terror  that 
lay  hidden  at  the  bottom  of  her  desperate  love 
rebelled,  mastered  her,  blinded  her  miserably.  The 
little  vain  accident  took  on  an  appearance  of  cruelty 
and  disdain.  She  could  still  hear  that  laugh  pealing 
in  the  wild  maze. 

"  Stelio !  " 

She  cried  out  to  him  as  if  she  had  seen  him  in  the 
act  of  being  embraced  by  the  other  woman,  as  if  she 


284  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

had  seen  him  in  a  frenzied  hallucination,  torn  from 
her  arms  for  ever. 

"  Stelio !  " 

"  Look  for  me,"  he  answered  laughing,  invisible. 

She  darted  into  the  labyrinth  to  find  him  and  went 
straight  towards  his  voice  and  laugh,  carried  away 
by  her  impulse.  But  the  path  deviated.  A  blind  box 
wall  rose  up  before  her,  impenetrable,  and  stopped 
her.  She  followed  the  crooked,  deceiving  path,  and 
one  turning  succeeded  the  other  and  all  were  alike, 
and  the  circle  seemed  to  have  no  end. 

"  Look  for  me !  "  the  voice  repeated  from  afar 
across  the  living  hedges. 

"Where  are  you?  Where  are  you?  Do  you  see 
me?" 

She  looked  here  and  there  for  some  thinner  place 
in  the  hedge  through  which  she  could  see.  All  she 
could  perceive  was  the  thick  tissue  of  the  branches 
and  the  redness  of  evening  that  kindled  them  on 
one  side,  while  the  shadows  drowned  them  on  the 
other.  The  box  bushes  and  the  hornbeams  mingled, 
the  evergreen  leaves  grew  in  confusion  together  with 
the  dying  ones,  the  darker  with  the  paler,  in  a 
contrast  of  vigour  and  languor,  with  an  ambiguity 
that  increased  the  bewilderment  of  the  panting 
woman. 

"  I  am  losing  myself.     Come  and  meet  me  !  " 

Again  his  youthful  laughter  pealed  in  the  thicket. 

"  Ariadne,  Ariadne,  the  thread  !  " 

The  sound  now  came  from  the  opposite  side, 
wounding  her  in  the  spine  like  a  blow. 

"  Ariadne !  " 

She  turned,  ran,  wandered,  tried  to  penetrate  the 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  285 

hedge,  to  make  an  opening  in  the  foliage,  broke  away 
A  branch. 

She  saw  nothing,  except  the  regular  ever-renewed 
maze.  At  last  she  heard  a  step,  so  near  her  that  she 
thought  it  was  behind  her  and  started.  But  she  was 
mistaken.  Again  she  explored  the  leafy  prison, 
whence  there  was  no  return,  that  was  closing  round 
her ;  listened,  waited ;  she  heard  her  own  panting  and 
the  throb  of  her  own  pulses.  The  silence  had  become 
vast.  She  gazed  at  the  sky,  curving  immense  and 
pure  over  the  two  leafy  walls  that  imprisoned  her.  It 
seemed  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  the  world  beyond 
that  narrowness  and  that  immensity.  And  she  could 
not  succeed  in  separating  in  her  thoughts  the  reality 
of  the  place  from  the  image  of  her  soul's  torture,  the 
natural  aspect  of  things  from  that  kind  of  Hving 
allegory  created  by  her  own  anguish. 

"  Stelio  !  Where  are  you?  " 

No  answer  came.  She  listened.  She  waited  in 
vain.     The  seconds  seemed  hours. 

"  Where  are  you  ?     I  am  frightened." 

No  answer  came.  Where  had  he  gone?  Had  he 
perhaps  found  the  way  out;  had  he  left  her  there 
alone?     Was  he  going  to  continue  his  cruel  game? 

A  furious  longing  to  shriek,  to  sob,  to  throw  her- 
self on  the  ground,  to  struggle  there  and  hurt  herself 
and  die,  seized  the  maddened  woman.  She  again 
raised  her  eyes  towards  the  silent  sky.  The  summit 
of  the  great  hedges  were  reddening  like  burnt  vine 
branches  that  have  ceased  to  flare  up  and  are  about 
to  become  ashes. 

*'  I  can  see  you,"  suddenly  said  the  laughing  voice, 
in  the  low  shadows,  quite  close  to  her. 


286  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  started  violently,  bent  down  in  the  shadow. 

"  Where  are  you  ?  " 

He  laughed  among  the  leaves  without  showing  him- 
self, like  a  faun  in  ambush.  The  game  excited  him 
and  warmed  his  limbs  that  were  stretching  themselves 
in  his  exercise  of  dexterity ;  and  the  wild  mystery,  the 
contact  with  the  earth,  the  odour  of  autumn,  the  singu- 
larity of  the  unforeseen  adventure,  the  woman's  be- 
wilderment, the  very  presence  of  the  stone  deities, 
poured  into  his  physical  pleasure  an  illusion  of 
antique  poetry. 

"Where  are  you?  Oh,  do  not  joke  any  more. 
Do  not  laugh  so.     It  is  enough  now." 

He  had  crept  into  the  bush  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  his  head  uncovered.  Under  his  knees  he  felt 
the  decaying  leaves,  the  soft  moss.  And  as  he 
breathed  and  throbbed  in  the  branches,  letting  that 
pleasure  absorb  all  his  senses,  the  communion  of 
his  own  life  with  the  life  of  the  trees  became  closer, 
and  the  spell  of  his  imagination  renewed  in  that 
gathering  of  uncertain  ways  the  industry  of  the  first 
maker  of  wings,  the  myth  of  the  monster  which  was 
born  of  Pasiphae  and  the  Bull,  the  Attic  fable  of 
Theseus  in  Crete.  The  whole  of  that  world  became 
real  to  him,  he  was  being  transfigured  on  that  purple 
evening  in  autumn  according  to  the  instincts  of  his 
blood  and  the  memories  of  his  intellect,  into  one  of 
those  amphibious  forms,  half  beast,  half  divinity, 
into  one  of  those  silvern  genii  whose  throat  is  swollen 
with  the  same  glands  that  hang  suspended  from  the 
neck  of  the  goat.  A  laughing  voluptuousness  sug- 
gested strange  attitudes  and  gestures  to  him,  surprising 
and  whimsical,  figured  to  him  the  joy  of  a  chase,  of  a 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  287 

rapid  union  on  the  moss  or  against  the  uncultured 
box.  Then  he  desired  a  creature  that  should  be  like 
him,  a  fresh  bosom  to  which  he  might  communicate 
his  laughter,  two  swift  legs,  two  arms  ready  for  a 
struggle,  a  prey  to  conquer,  a  virginity  to  force,  a 
violence  to  accomplish.  The  curved  form  of  Dona- 
tella reappeared  to  him. 

"  Enough !  I  can  go  on  no  longer,  Stelio.  I 
shall  let  myself  fall  to  the  ground." 

La  Foscarina  gave  a  scream  on  feeling  the  hem  of 
her  dress  pulled  by  a  hand  that  had  passed  through 
the  bush.  She  bent  down  and  perceived  in  the 
shadow  among  the  branches  the  face  of  a  laughing 
faun.  That  laugh  flashed  on  her  soul  without  moving 
it,  without  breaking  the  horrible  suffering  that  had 
closed  round  her.  On  the  contrary  she  suffered  all 
the  more  acutely  from  the  contrast  between  his 
merriment  and  her  sadness,  between  that  joy  which 
was  ever  new  and  her  perpetual  anxiety,  between  that 
easy  oblivion  and  the  weight  of  her  encumbrance. 
She  saw  her  error  more  clearly  and  she  saw  the 
cruelty  of  life  that  was  placing  the  image  of  the  other 
woman  there  where  she  herself  was  suffering.  As 
she  bent  down,  as  she  saw  his  youthful  face,  she  saw 
with  the  same  clearness  the  face  of  the  singer  who 
was  bending  down  with  her  imitating  her  gesture  as 
the  shadow  repeats  a  gesture  on  an  illuminated  wall. 
All  grew  confused  in  her  spirit  and  her  thoughts  were 
unable  to  place  an  interval  between  that  image  and 
reality.  The  other  woman  placed  herself  upon  her, 
oppressing  her,  suppressing  her. 

"  Leave  me !  Leave  me !  It  is  not  me  you  are 
seeking.  .  .  ," 


288  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

The  voice  was  so  changed  that  Stelio  stopped  his 
laugh  and  his  game,  drew  back  his  arm,  rose  up 
straight.  She  saw  him  no  more,  the  impenetrable 
leafy  wall  was  between  them. 

"  Lead  me  away  from  this.  I  can  hold  up  no 
longer;  my  strength  is  spent.  ...  I  am  suffering!" 

He  could  find  no  words  with  which  to  soothe  her 
and  comfort  her.  The  simultaneous  coincidence  of 
his  recent  desire  and  her  sudden  divination  had  struck 
home. 

"  Wait,  wait  a  moment !  I  will  try  to  find  the  way 
out.     I  will  call  some  one.  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  going  away?  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid !  Don't  be  afraid  !  There  is  no 
danger." 

And  while  he  spoke  thus  to  reassure  her  he  was 
feeling  the  inanity  of  his  words  —  the  discord  between 
that  laughable  adventure  and  the  obscure  emotion 
arising  from  a  far  different  cause.  And  now  he  too 
felt  the  strange  ambiguity  by  which  the  small  event 
was  appearing  in  two  confused  aspects  :  a  suppressed 
desire  of  laughter  persisting  under  his  solicitude  so 
that  his  suffering  was  new  to  him,  like  certain  agitations 
born  of  extravagant  dreams. 

"  Don't  go  away,"  she  begged,  a  prey  to  her  hallu- 
cination. "  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  there  at  the  next 
turning.     Let  us  try.     Take  me  by  the  hands." 

Through  one  of  the  open  spaces  he  took  her  hands 
and  found  them  so  cold  that  he  started  as  he  touched 
them. 

"  Foscarina,  what  is  the  matter?  Do  you  really 
feel  unwell?  Wait!  I  will  try  to  break  through  the 
hedge." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  289 

He  tried  to  force  through  the  thicket,  snapped 
some  of  its  branches  but  its  robustness  resisted  his 
efforts.     He  wounded  his  hands  in  vain. 

"  It  is  not  possible." 

"  Cry  out.     Call  some  one." 

He  called  out  in  the  silence.  The  summit  of  the 
high  hedges  had  lost  its  colour,  but  in  the  sky  above 
them  a  red  Hght  was  spreading  that  was  like  the 
reflection  of  woods  on  fire  on  the  horizon.  A  flock 
of  wild  ducks  passed,  arranged  in  a  black  triangle, 
stretching  out  their  long  necks. 

"  Let  me  go  !  I  shall  easily  find  the  tower.  And 
from  the  tower  I  can  call.  Some  one  will  hear  my 
cries." 

"No,  no!" 

She  heard  him  go  away  from  her,  followed  the 
sound  of  his  steps,  was  once  more  engaged  in  the 
maze,  once  more  found  herself  alone  and  lost.  She 
stopped,  waited,  listened.  She  looked  at  the  sky, 
saw  the  triangular  flock  disappear  in  the  distance. 
She  lost  the  sense  of  time,  the  seconds  seemed  hours. 

"  Stelio  !     Stelio  !  " 

She  was  no  longer  capable  of  an  effort  to  dominate 
the  disorder  of  her  exasperated  nerves.  She  felt  the 
extreme  access  of  her  mania  coming  on  as  one  would 
feel  a  hurricane  that  is  drawing  near. 

"  Stelio  !  " 

He  heard  the  voice  full  of  anguish  and  hastened 
his  search  along  the  winding  paths  that  now  drew 
him  near  to  the  tower  and  now  drew  him  away  from 
it.  His  laugh  had  frozen  in  his  heart.  His  whole 
soul  trembled  to  the  roots,  every  time  his  name 
reached  him,  pronounced   by  that  invisible  agony. 


290  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

And  the  gradual  lessening  of  the  light  brought  up 
to  his  imagination  the  thought  of  blood  that  is  flow- 
ing away,  of  life  that  is  slowly  fading. 

"  Here  I  am  !     Here  I  am  !  " 

One  of  the  paths  brought  him  at  last  to  the  open 
space  where  the  tower  was  built.  He  ran  furiously 
up  the  winding  staircase,  felt  a  dizziness  overtake  him 
when  he  reached  the  top,  closed  his  eyes  holding 
on  to  the  banisters,  opened  them  again,  saw  a  long 
zone  of  fire  on  the  horizon,  the  disc  of  the  rayless 
moon,  the  plain  that  was  like  a  grey  marsh,  the  laby- 
rinth beneath  him  black  with  box  bushes  and  spotted 
with  hornbeam,  quite  narrow  in  its  interminable  folds, 
looking  like  a  dismantled  edifice  invaded  by  wild 
vines,  like  a  ruin  and  a  wood,  lugubrious  and  wild. 

"  Stop  !  Stop  !  Do  not  run  like  that.  Some  one 
has  heard  me.  A  man  is  coming.  I  can  see  him 
coming.     Wait!     Stop!" 

He  saw  the  woman  running  round  like  a  mad  thing 
along  the  blind  uncertain  paths,  like  a  creature  con- 
demned to  some  vain  torment,  to  some  useless  but 
eternal  agitation,  like  a  sister  of  the  mythical 
martyrs. 

'♦  Stop !  " 

It  seemed  that  she  did  not  hear  him,  or  that  she 
could  not  stop  her  fatal  agitation,  and  that  he  was 
tied  down  and  could  not  rescue  her,  but  was  to  re- 
main a  witness  of  that  terrible  chastisement. 

"  Here  he  is  !  " 

One  of  the  keepers  had  heard  their  cries,  had 
drawn  near,  was  coming  through  the  gate.  Stelio 
met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  Together  they 
went  out  to  seek  the  lost  woman.     The  man  knew 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  291 

the  secret  of  the  labyrinth.  Stelio  prevented  his 
chatter  and  his  display  of  wit  by  surprising  him  with 
his  generosity, 

"Has  she  lost  consciousness?  Has  she  fallen?" 
The  shadow  and  silence  were  very  sinister  and  filled 
him  with  dismay.  When  he  called  her  she  did  not 
answer.  Her  steps  could  not  be  heard.  Night  had 
already  descended  over  the  place  under  a  damp  veil 
of  mist  that  was  slowly  dropping  from  the  purple 
sky.  "  Shall  I  find  her  stretched  out,  fainting,  on  the 
ground?" 

He  started  on  suddenly  seeing  a  mysterious  figure 
appear  at  a  turning  with  a  pale  face  that  attracted  all 
the  twilight  and  shone  like  a  pearl  with  large  fixed 
eyes  and  tight  stiff  lips.  They  turned  back  towards 
the  Dolo,  taking  the  same  way  along  the  Brenta. 
She  never  spoke,  never  opened  her  mouth,  never 
answered,  as  if  she  could  not  unclose  her  teeth, 
stretched  out  in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage  wrapped 
in  her  mantle  up  to  her  chin,  shaken  now  and  then 
by  strong  shudders,  suffused  with  a  livid  pallor  like 
that  of  malarial  fever.  Her  friend  tried  to  take  her 
fingers  and  hold  them  in  his  own  to  warm  them,  but 
in  vain :  they  were  inert  and  seemed  Hfeless.  And 
as  they  went  the  statues  passed  and  passed  on  beside 
them. 

The  river  flowed  darkly  between  its  banks  under 
the  violet  and  silver  sky  where  the  full  moon  was 
rising.  A  black  boat  was  coming  down  stream, 
towed  by  two  grey  horses  that  trod  the  grass  on  the 
tow-path  with  a  dull  thud  of  heavy  hoofs,  led  by  a 
man  who  whistled  peacefully,  and  the  funnel  smoked 
on  the  deck  like  a  chimney-pot  on  the  roof  of  a  hovel, 


292  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  the  yellow  light  of  a  lantern  flared  in  the  hold 
and  the  odour  of  an  evening  meal  spread  through 
the  air  and  here  and  there,  as  they  went  through  the 
irrigated  landscape,  the  statues  passed  and  passed 
Beside  them. 

It  was  like  a  Stygian  plain,  like  a  vision  of 
Hades :  a  land  of  shadows,  mist,  and  water.  All 
things  grew  misty  and  vanished  like  spirits.  The 
moon  enchanted  and  attracted  the  plain  as  it  en- 
chants and  attracts  the  sea,  drinking  in  the  vapours 
of  earth  from  the  horizon  with  insatiable,  silent  greed. 
Solitary  pools  shone  everywhere,  small  silvery  canals 
between  rows  of  inclined  willows  could  be  seen  glit- 
tering at  indefinite  distances.  Earth  seemed  to  be 
losing  its  solidity  little  by  little,  seemed  to  dissolve; 
the  sky  seemed  to  watch  its  own  melancholy  reflected 
on  it  in  innumerable  quiet  mirrors.  And  here  and 
there  along  the  discoloured  shore,  like  the  shadows 
of  a  destroyed  population,  those  statues  passed  and 
passed  beside  them. 


"  Do  you  often  think  of  Donatella  Arvale,  Stelio?" 
la  Foscarina  asked  suddenly,  after  a  long  interval  in 
which  both  had  heard  nothing  but  the  cadence  of 
their  own  steps  along  the  canal  footpath  of  the 
Vetrai  illumined  by  the  manifold  light  of  the  frail 
things  that  filled  the  windows  of  the  neighbouring 
shops. 

Her  voice  was  like  a  glass  that  is  cracking.  Stelio 
stopped  suddenly  in  the  attitude  of  one  who  suddenly 
finds  himself  before  an  unforeseen  difficulty.  His 
spirit  had  been  wandering  freely  over  the  red  and 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  293 

green  island  of  Murano,  begemmed  with  flowers 
in  her  present  disconsolate  poverty,  in  which  she 
seemed  to  have  lost  even  the  memory  of  the  joy- 
ous times  in  which  poets  had  sung  her  praises  as 
"  a  place  fit  for  nymphs  and  demigods."  He  had 
been  thinking  of  the  illustrious  gardens  where  Andrea 
Navagero,  Bembo,  Aretino,  Aldo,  in  their  learned 
assembly  rivalled  each  other  in  the  elegance  of  their 
platonic  dialogues,  lauri  sub  umbra.  He  had  been 
thinking  of  convents  luxurious  as  gynaecus  inhabited 
by  nuns  dressed  in  white  camelot  and  laces,  their 
brows  adorned  with  curls,  their  breasts  uncovered 
after  the  manner  of  the  more  honoured  courtesans, 
given  to  secret  loves,  much  sought  after  by  licentious 
patricians,  the  possessors  of  sweet  names  such  as 
Ancilla  Soranzo,  Cipriana  Morosini,  Zanetta  Balbi, 
Beatrice  Falier,  Eugenia  Muschiera,  pious  teachers 
of  pleasures.  His  fluctuating  dream  had  been  accom- 
panied by  an  aria  which  he  had  heard  in  the  museum 
slowly  moaning  in  sonorous  drops  from  a  small  me- 
tallic instrument  set  in  movement  by  the  turn  of  a 
key  hidden  under  a  garden  of  glass  where  two  lovers 
adorned  with  glass  beads  danced  round  a  little  foun- 
tain of  white  agate.  It  was  an  indistinct  melody,  a 
forgotten  dance  tune;  most  of  its  notes  were  silent 
through  dust  and  damage,  yet  so  expressive  that  he 
had  been  unable  to  drive  it  away  from  his  ears.  And 
since,  all  around  him  had  had  the  remote  frailty  and 
melancholy  of  those  little  figures  dancing  to  sounds 
slower  than  falling  drops.  The  faint  soul  of  Murano 
has  chattered  in  that  old  pastime. 

At  the  sudden  question  the  aria  had  stopped,  the 
»  figures  had  dispersed,  the  spell  of  far-away  life  had 


294  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

vanished.  His  wandering  spirit  was  called  back  and 
contracted  unwillingly.  By  his  side  Stelio  felt  the 
beating  of  a  living  heart  that  he  must  inevitably  wound. 
He  turned  to  look  at  his  friend.  She  was  walking,  al- 
most calm,  with  no  trace  of  agitation,  along  the  canal 
between  the  green  of  the  sickly  water  and  the  irides- 
cence of  the  delicate  vases.  The  only  thing  about 
her  that  trembled  slightly  was  her  attenuated  chin 
just  showing  between  the  sable  collar  and  the  border 
of  her  veil. 

"Yes,  sometimes,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  incapable  of  falsehood,  and  feeling  the 
necessity  of  raising  their  love  above  ordinary  ex- 
actions and  deceptions  in  order  that  it  might  remain 
a  cause  of  strength  to  him  and  not  of  weakness,  a 
free  compact  and  not  a  burdensome  tie. 

The  woman  went  on  steadily,  but  she  had  entirely 
lost  the  sensation  of  her  various  limbs  in  the  terrible 
beating  of  her  heart  that  ran  from  neck  to  heels 
as  on  a  single  cord.  She  saw  nothing;  all  she  felt 
was  the  fascinating  presence  of  the  water  by  her 
side. 

"  Her  voice  cannot  be  forgotten,"  he  said  after  a 
pause,  gathering  up  his  courage.  "  Its  power  is  ex- 
traordinary. From  the  very  first  evening,  I  thought 
that  she  might  be  made  a  marvellous  instrument  of 
my  work.  I  wish  she  would  consent  to  sing  the  lyric 
parts  of  my  tragedy,  the  odes  that  arise  from  the 
symphonies  and  resolve  themselves  into  dance-figures 
at  the  end  between  one  episode  and  the  other.  La 
Tanagra  has  consented  to  dance.  I  rely  on  your 
kind  intervention,  my  friend,  in  order  to  obtain  the 
consent  of  Donatella  Arvale.     The  Dionysian  Trinity 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  295 

would  thus  be  reconstructed  in  a  perfect  manner  on 
the  new  stage,  for  man's  greater  joy.  .  .  ." 

He  noticed  as  he  spoke  that  his  words  did  not 
ring  true,  that  his  unconcerned  manner  contrasted 
too  sharply  with  the  deadly  shadow  on  the  veiled 
face  of  his  mistress.  Against  his  will  he  had  exag- 
gerated his  frankness  in  considering  the  singer  merely 
as  an  artistic  instrument,  as  a  purely  ideal  force  to 
be  attracted  into  the  circle  of  his  magnificent  enter- 
prise. Unwillingly  disturbed  by  the  suffering  that 
walked  beside  him,  he  had  stooped  ever  so  slightly 
towards  dissimulation.  Certainly  what  he  had  said 
was  the  truth,  but  his  mistress  had  asked  him  for 
another  truth.  He  interrupted  himself  brusquely, 
unable  to  tolerate  the  sound  of  his  own  words.  He 
felt  that  art  in  that  hour  had  no  resonance  whatever 
between  him  and  the  actress,  no  living  value.  They 
were  dominated  by  another  more  imperious,  more 
turbid  force.  The  world  which  intellects  create 
seemed  inert  like  the  old  stones  they  were  treading. 
The  only  truthful  and  formidable  power  was  the 
poison  running  in  their  human  blood.  The  will  of 
the  one  was  saying :  "  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you 
all,  body  and  soul,  for  my  own."  The  will  of  the 
other  was  saying :  "  You  shall  love  me  and  you  shall 
serve  me,  but  I  can  renounce  nothing  in  life  that 
excites  my  desire."  The  struggle  was  unequal  and 
atrocious. 

As  the  woman  was  silent,  involuntarily  quickening 
her  pace,  he  faced  the  other  truth. 

"  I  quite  understand  that  this  is  not  what  you 
wanted  to  know.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  it  was  not  that !     Well  ?  " 


296  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  kind  of  spasmodic  vio- 
lence that  reminded  him  of  her  fury  one  distant 
evening  and  of  the  mad  cry :  •*  Go  !  Run !  She  is 
waiting  for  you !  "  On  that  tranquil  path  between 
the  lazy  water  and  the  frail  crystals,  in  the  quiet 
little  island,  the  face  of  danger  flashed  before  him. 

But  an  importunate  stranger  crossed  the  path, 
offering   to  lead  them  to  the  neighbouring  furnace. 

"  Let  us  go  in  !  Let  us  go  in  !  "  said  the  woman, 
following  the  man  and  penetrating  into  the  passage 
as  in  a  refuge  to  avoid  the  shame  of  the  open  street, 
the  profane  daylight  shining  on  her  ruin. 

The  place  was  damp,  spotted  with  sea-salt,  smell- 
ing of  salt  like  a  cave.  They  passed  through  a 
courtyard  full  of  firewood,  passed  through  a  de- 
crepit door,  reached  the  furnace,  found  themselves 
wrapped  round  with  its  fiery  breath,  before  a  great 
incandescent  altar  that  imparted  a  painful  tingling  to 
their  eyes  as  if  the  lashes  had  suddenly  caught  fire. 

"  To  disappear,  to  be  swallowed  up,  to  leave  no 
trace !  "  roared  the  woman's  heart,  intoxicated  with  a 
desire  of  destruction.  "  That  fire  could  devour  me 
in  an  instant  like  a  dried  stick,  like  a  bundle  of  straw." 
And  she  drew  near  to  the  open  mouths,  whence  she 
could  watch  the  fluent  flames,  more  splendid  than  a 
summer  noon,  surrounding  the  earthenware  vases  in 
which  the  formless  mineral  was  being  melted ;  the 
workmen  disposed  all  round  were  waiting  to  approach 
with  an  iron  tube  to  shape  it  with  a  breath  of  their 
lips  and  the  instruments  of  their  art. 

"Oh,  Virtue  of  the  Flame!"  thought  the  Life- 
giver,  beguiled  from  his  anxiety  by  the  miraculous 
beauty  of  the  element  that  had  become  familiar  to 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  297 

him  as  a  brother  from  the  day  in  which  he  had  felt 
the  revealing  melody.  "  Ah,  that  I  might  give  to  the 
life  of  the  creatures  who  love  me  the  perfection  of  the 
forms  to  which  I  aspire  !  That  I  might  fuse  all  their 
weaknesses  in  some  white  heat,  and  make  of  it  an 
obedient  matter  in  which  to  impress  the  command- 
ments of  my  will,  which  is  heroic,  and  the  images  of 
my  poetry,  which  is  pure.  Why,  why,  my  friend,  will 
you  not  be  the  divine,  mobile  statue  of  my  spirit,  the 
work  of  faith  and  of  sorrow  by  which  our  lives  might 
surpass  our  art  itself?  Why  are  we  on  the  point  of 
resembling  those  small  lovers  who  curse  and  lament? 
I  had  truly  thought  that  you  could  have  given  me 
more  than  love  when  I  heard  from  your  lips  those 
admirable  words :  '  One  thing  I  can  do,  which  even 
love  cannot  do.'  You  must  ever  be  able  to  accom- 
plish those  things  which  love  can,  and  those  things 
which  love  cannot  do  in  order  to  equal  my  insatiable 
nature." 

Meanwhile,  the  work  of  the  furnace  was  proceeding 
fervently.  At  the  end  of  the  blowing  irons,  the  molten 
glass  swelled,  twisted,  became  silvery  as  a  little  cloud, 
shone  like  the  moon,  crackled,  divided  into  a  thou- 
sand infinitely  fine  fragments,  glittering,  slighter  than 
the  threads  which  we  see  in  the  forest  at  dawn 
stretching  from  branch  to  branch.  The  workmen* 
were  shaping  harmonious  vases,  each  as  he  operated 
obeying  a  rhythm  of  his  own,  generated  by  the  quality 
of  the  matter  and  by  the  habit  of  movements  most  apt 
to  dominate  it.  The  apprentices  would  place  a  small 
pear-shaped  mass  of  burning  paste  on  the  spot 
pointed  out  by  the  master,  and  the  mass  would 
lengthen  out,  twist,  transform  itself  into  a  handle,  a 


298  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

rim,  a  spout,  a  foot,  or  a  stem.  The  red  heat  would 
slowly  die  out  under  the  instruments,  and  the  half- 
formed  chalice  would  again  be  exposed  to  the  flame, 
and  be  drawn  from  it  docile,  ductile,  sensitive  to  the 
slightest  touches  that  adorned  and  refined  it,  con- 
forming it  to  the  model  handed  down  by  their  fathers, 
or  to  the  free  invention  of  the  new  creator.  The 
human  gestures  round  those  elegant  creatures  of  fire, 
breath  and  iron,  were  extraordinarily  nimble  and 
light,  like  the  gestures  of  a  silent  dance.  The  figure 
of  la  Tanagra  appeared  to  the  Life-giver  like  a  sala- 
mander in  the  perpetual  undulation  of  the  flame. 
And  the  powerful  melody  was  sung  to  him  by  the 
voice  of  Donatella. 

"  To-day,  again,  I  myself  have  given  her  to  you  as 
a  companion,"  la  Foscarina  was  thinking.  "  I  my- 
self have  called  her  up  between  us,  have  recalled  her 
while  your  thoughts  were  perhaps  elsewhere,  have  sud- 
denly left  her  before  you,  as  in  that  night's  delirium." 

It  was  true,  it  was  true !  From  the  instant  in 
which  the  name  of  the  singer  had  echoed  against  the 
armour  of  the  man-of-war,  pronounced  for  the  first 
time  by  her  friend  in  the  shadow  made  by  the  flank 
of  the  armed  giant  on  the  twilight  waters  —  from  that 
instant  she  had  unconsciously  exalted  the  new  image 
in  his  spirit,  had  fed  it  with  her  very  jealousy,  with 
her  very  fear,  had  strengthened  and  magnified  it 
daily,  had  at  last  illumined  it  with  certainty.  More 
than  once  she  had  repeated  to  him  who  had  perhaps 
forgotten :  "  She  is  waiting  for  you  !  "  More  than 
once  she  had  presented  that  distant  mysterious  ex- 
pectancy to  his  perhaps  careless  imagination.  As  in 
that  Dionysian  night  when  the  conflagration  of  Venice 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  299 

had  lit  up  the  two  young  faces  with  one  same  re- 
flection, it  was  now  her  passion  that  kindled  them, 
and  they  only  burned  because  she  chose  that  she 
should  burn.  "  Certainly,"  she  was  thinking,  "  he  now 
possesses  that  image  and  is  possessed  by  it.  My  very 
anguish  excites  his  desire.  It  gives  him  joy  to  love 
her  under  the  eyes  of  my  despair.  ,  .  ."  And  her 
torture  was  nameless,  and  because  it  was  her  own  love 
that  had  fed  the  love  that  was  killing  her,  she  felt  her 
own  ardour  encircling  it  like  a  necessary  atmosphere, 
without  which  perhaps  it  could  not  have  lived. 

"  As  soon  as  it  is  formed  the  vase  is  put  in  the 
furnace  room  to  be  tempered,"  one  of  the  master 
glaziers  answered  Stelio,  who  had  questioned  him. 
"  It  would  break  into  a  thousand  fragments,  if  it  were 
all  at  once  exposed  to  the  air." 

They  could  see  the  shining  vases,  still  the  slaves  of 
the  flame,  still  under  its  dominion,  gathered  together 
in  a  receptacle  that  prolonged  the  furnace  where  they 
had  been  fused. 

"  They  have  already  been  there  for  ten  hours,"  said 
the  glazier,  pointing  to  his  graceful  family.  Later  the 
delicate,  beautiful  creatures  would  abandon  their  father 
and  be  separated  from  him  for  ever,  would  grow  cold 
and  become  icy  gems,  would  live  their  own  new  life 
in  the  world,  would  subject  themselves  to  voluptuous 
men,  would  go  out  to  meet  danger,  would  follow  the 
variations  of  light,  holding  the  cut  flower  or  the 
intoxicating  wine. 

"Is  it  our  great  Foscarina?"  the  small,  red-eyed 
man  asked  of  Stelio  in  a  low  voice. 

He  had  recognised  her,  when,  suff'ocating,  she  had 
raised  her  veil. 


300  THE  FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Trembling  with  ingenuous  emotion,  the  master  gla- 
zier took  one  step  towards  her  and  bowed  humbly. 

"  One  evening,  mistress,  you  have  made  me  trem- 
ble and  cry  like  a  child.  Will  you  allow  me,  in  mem- 
ory of  that  evening,  which  I  can  never  forget  as  long 
as  I  live,  to  offer  you  a  little  work  made  by  the  hands 
of  the  poor  Seguso?  " 

"  A  Seguso,"  exclaimed  Stelio  Effrena,  bending 
quickly  towards  the  little  man  to  look  him  in  the  face 
—  "  of  the  great  family  of  glaziers,  a  pure  one  of  the 
genuine  race?" 

"  At  your  service,  master." 

"A  prince,  then?" 

"  Yes.     A  harlequin  shamming  as  prince." 

"You  know  all  the  secrets,  then?" 

The  man  of  Murano  made  a  mysterious  gesture 
that  conjured  up  all  the  deep  ancestral  knowledge 
of  which  he  had  declared  himself  the  last  heir. 

The  other  glaziers  smiled  round  the  furnace,  inter- 
rupting their  work  while  the  glass  at  the  end  of 
their  irons  changed  colour. 

"  Then,  mistress,  you  will  deign  to  accept?  " 

He  seemed  to  have  stepped  from  a  panel  of 
Bartolomeo  Vivarini,  to  be  the  brother  of  one  of  the 
faithful  ones  kneeling  under  the  mantle  of  the  Virgin 
in  Santa  Maria  Formosa :  thin,  bent,  dried  up,  as  if 
refined  by  fire,  frail  as  if  his  skin  covered  a  frame- 
work of  glass,  with  thin  grey  hanging  curls,  a  thin 
rigid  nose,  sharp  chin,  two  thin  lips  from  the  corners 
of  which  there  started  the  wrinkles  of  wit  and 
attention,  two  flexible  prudent  hands,  reddened  by 
scars  where  they  had  been  burnt,  expressive  of 
dexterity    and    precision,   accustomed    to    gestures 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  301 

leading  beautiful  lines  in  sensitive  matter,  true  in- 
struments of  delicate  art  made  perfect  in  the  last  heir 
by  the  uninterrupted  practice  of  so  many  laborious 
generations. 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  Seguso,"  said  Stelio  Effrena,  who 
had  examined  all  this,  "  the  proof  of  your  nobility  is 
in  your  hands." 

The  glazier  gazed  at  them  smiling,  stretching  them 
out  flat. 

"  You  should  bequeathe  them  in  your  will  to  the 
museum  of  Murano,  together  with  your  blowing- 
pipe." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  for  them  to  be  preserved  like  the 
heart  of  Canova  and  the  morello  cherries  of 
Padova. " 

The  frank  laugh  of  the  workmen  ran  round  the 
forge  and  the  unformed  vases  trembled  at  the  end  of 
the  irons,  half  rosy  and  bluish  like  clusters  of  hydran- 
gea about  to  change  colour. 

"  But  the  decisive  proof  will  be  in  your  glass. 
Let  us  see  !  " 

La  Foscarina  had  not  spoken,  fearing  the  unsteadi- 
ness of  her  voice ;  but  all  her  graceful  sweetness 
suddenly  reappearing  above  the  edge  of  her  sadness 
had  accepted  the  gift  and  compensated  the  giver. 

"  Let  us  see,  Seguso." 

The  little  man  scratched  his  perspiring  temple  with 
an  air  of  perplexity,  divining  the  expert. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  guess,"  added  Stelio  Effrena,  draw- 
ing near  the  crucible  chamber  and  throwing  a  glance 
of  election  on  the  vases  gathered  there.  "  If  it  be 
that  one.  .  .  ." 

Behold   with  his    presence    he    had    brought    an 


302  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

unusual  animation  in  the  midst  of  a  daily  labour, 
the  bright  ardour  of  the  game  that  he  perpetually 
unfolded  through  life.  All  those  simple  souls,  after 
having  smiled,  passionately  awaited  the  test,  awaited 
his  choice  with  the  curious  anxiety  with  which  one 
awaits  the  result  of  a  bet,  soliciting  a  comparison 
between  the  subtlety  of  the  master  and  that  of  the 
judge.  And  the  young  unknown  man  who  moved  in 
their  laboratory  as  in  a  familiar  place,  equalling  him- 
self to  the  men  and  the  things  around  him  with  such 
rapid  and  spontaneous  sympathy,  was  no  longer  a 
stranger  to  them. 

"  If  it  be  that  one.  .  .  ." 

La  Foscarina  was  attracted  by  the  game  and 
almost  forced  to  unbend,  suddenly  emptied  of  all 
bitterness  and  rancour  before  her  friend's  happiness. 
There  too  and  without  effort  he  had  kindled  a 
fugitive  moment  with  beauty  and  passion,  communi- 
cated to  his  companions  the  fervour  of  his  vitality, 
raised  the  spirits  he  had  met  to  a  superior  sphere, 
reawakened  in  those  degenerate  artisans  the  ancient 
pride  in  their  art.  In  few  moments  the  harmony  of 
a  pure  line  had  become  the  centre  of  their  world. 
And  the  Life-giver  was  bending  over  the  grouped 
vases  as  if  the  fortune  of  the  little  hesitating  glazier 
depended  on  his  choice. 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true.  You  alone  know  how  to 
live,"  she  was  telling  him  tenderly.  "  It  is  necessary 
that  you  should  have  all.  I  shall  rest  content  with 
seeing  you  live,  with  seeing  your  pleasure.  And  do 
with  me  what  you  will." 

She  smiled  as  she  annihilated  herself.  She 
belonged  to  him,  like  a  thing  that  can  be  held  in  ^ 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  303 

clenched  hand,  like  the  ring  on  a  finger,  like  a 
garment,  like  a  word  that  can  be  spoken  or  held  back, 
like  a  wine  that  can  be  drunk  or  spilt  on  the  ground. 

"  Well,  Seguso  ?  "  exclaimed  Steho  Effrena,  grow- 
ing impatient  at  his  prolonged  hesitation. 

The  man  looked  him  in  the  face,  then  growing 
bolder,  trusted  to  his  inborn  instinct.  Five  vases, 
among  many  others,  had  come  from  his  own  hands. 
One  could  distinguish  them,  as  if  they  had  belonged 
to  a  different  species ;  but  which  of  the  five  was  the 
most  beautiful? 

The  workmen  had  their  faces  turned  to  him  while 
they  exposed  the  vases  fixed  on  their  pipes  to  the 
flames  lest  they  should  grow  cold.  And  the  flames, 
clear  as  the  flame  from  the  crisp  laurel  leaf,  swayed 
in  the  furnace,  seeming  to  keep  those  men  chained 
there  with  the  irons  of  their  art. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Stelio  Effrena,  as  he  saw  the 
master  glazier  pick  out  the  chosen  vase  with  infinite 
care.  "  Blood  cannot  speak  false,  the  gift  is  worthy 
of  the  Dogaressa  Foscarina,  Seguso." 

The  Muranese  holding  the  stem  of  the  chalice 
between  his  finger  and  thumb  stood  smiling  before 
the  woman,  illumined  by  the  warm  praise.  His  sharp 
sagacious  look  put  one  in  mind  of  the  little  golden 
fox  on  the  cock's  tail  in  the  blazon  of  Murano ;  the 
eyelids,  reddened  by  the  violent  glare  of  his  furnace, 
twinkled  over  the  eyes  that  were  turned  to  the  frail 
work  still  glittering  in  his  hand  before  going  away, 
and  his  almost  caressing  fingers  and  his  whole  attitude 
revealed  the  hereditary  faculty  of  feeling  the  difficult 
beauty  of  simple  lines  and  extremely  delicate  colour- 
ings.    The  chalice  held  by  the  bent  man  who  had 


304  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

created  it  was  like  one  of  those  miraculous  flowers 
that  blossom  on  thin  contorted  shrubs. 

It  was  indeed  beautiful,  mysterious  as  natural  things 
are  mysterious,  holding  the  life  of  a  human  breath 
in  its  hollow,  its  transparency  emulating  skies  and 
waters,  similar  in  its  purple  rim  to  a  seaweed  wander- 
ing on  the  ocean;  pure,  simple,  with  no  other  orna- 
ment but  that  rim,  no  other  Hmbs  but  its  foot,  its  stem 
and  its  lip ;  and  no  man  could  have  told  why  it  was 
so  beautiful,  not  with  one  word  nor  with  a  thousand. 
And  its  value  was  either  none  or  incalculable,  accord- 
ing to  the  quality  of  the  eye  that  gazed  upon  it. 

"  It  will  break,"  said  Stelio. 

La  Foscarina  had  chosen  to  take  her  gift  with  her 
without  having  it  wrapped  up,  like  one  carries  a 
flower. 

"  I  will  take  my  glove  off." 

She  stood  the  goblet  on  the  edge  of  the  well  that 
rose  in  the  centre  of  the  green.  The  rust  of  the 
weather-cock,  the  worn  facade  of  the  basilica  with 
its  Byzantine  remains,  the  red  brick  of  the  belfry, 
the  gold  of  the  hayrick  beyond  the  wall  and  the 
bronze  colour  of  the  high  laurels  and  the  faces  of  the 
women  threading  glass  beads  on  the  doorsteps,  and 
the  grass  and  the  clouds  and  all  the  surrounding  ap- 
pearances there  varied  the  sensibility  of  the  luminous 
glass.  All  colours  melted  into  its  own  colour.  And 
it  seemed  to  be  living  a  manifold  life  in  its  frailty,  like 
an  animated  rainbow  in  which  the  universe  mirrors 
itself. 

"  Imagine  the  sum  of  experience  which  has  gone  to 
the  production  of  this  beautiful  thing,"  said  Stelio, 
in  his  wonder.     "  All  the  generations  of  the  Seguso 


THE  EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  305 

contributed  across  the  centuries  with  their  breath 
and  touch  to  the  birth  of  this  creature,  in  the  happy 
instant  in  which  that  Httle  unconscious  glazier  was 
enabled  to  follow  the  remote  impulse  and  transmit  it 
with  precision  to  inert  matter.  The  fire  was  equal, 
the  paste  was  rich,  the  air  was  tempered ;  all  things 
were  favourable.     The  miracle  took  place." 

La  Foscarina  held  the  stem  of  the  chalice  between 
her  naked  fingers. 

"  If  it  were  to  break,  we  should  raise  up  a  mauso- 
leum to  it  as  Nero  did  to  the  shades  of  his  broken 
cup.  Oh,  the  love  of  things.  Another  despot, 
Xerxes,  has  preceded  you,  my  friend,  in  adorning  a 
beautiful  tree  with  necklaces." 

There  was  on  her  lips  below  the  edge  of  her  veil  a 
barely  visible  but  continual  smile ;  and  he  knew  that 
smile  through  having  suffered  from  it  on  the  banks  of 
the  Brenta,  in  the  fields  haunted  by  the  statues. 

"  Gardens,  gardens ;  gardens  everywhere.  Once 
they  were  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  earthly 
paradises  as  Andrea  Calmo  calls  them,  dedicated  to 
love,  music,  and  poetry.  Perhaps  one  of  those  old 
laurels  has  heard  Aldo  Manuzio  conversing  in  Greek 
with  the  Navagero  or  Madonna  Gasparina  sighing 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  Conte  di  Collalto.  .  .  ." 

They  were  going  along  a  road  that  was  shut  in 
by  the  walls  of  desolate  gardens.  At  the  summit  of 
the  walls,  in  the  interstices  of  the  blood-red  bricks, 
strange  grasses  trembled,  long  and  stiff  as  fingers. 
The  bronze-like  laurels  were  gilded  at  the  tips  by  the 
declining  sun.  The  air  seemed  filled  with  a  kind  of 
glittering  gold-dust. 

"  How  sweet  and  terrible  was  the  fate  of  Gaspara 


3o6  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

Stampa!     Do  you  know  her  rhymes?     I  saw  then 
one  day  on  your  table.     What  a  mixture  of  ice  and 
fire !     Now  and  then  her  deadly  passion,  across  the 
petrarchism  of  Cardinal  Bembo,  gives  out  some  fine 
cry.     I  know  a  magnificent  verse  of  hers :  — 
" '  Vivere  ardendo  e  non  sentire  il  male ! '"  ^ 

"  Do  you  remember,  Stelio,"  said  la  Foscarina,  with 
that  inextinguishable  smile  that  gave  her  the  appear- 
ance of  one  walking  in  her  sleep,  —  "  do  you  remember 
the  sonnet  that  begins : 

"  ♦  Signore,  io  so  che  in  me  non  son  piu  viva, 

E  veggo  omai  ch'  ancor  in  voi  son  morta  '?..,"* 

"  I  don't  remember,  Fosca." 

"  Do  you  remember  your  own  beautiful  image  of 
dead  summer?  Summer  was  lying  in  the  funeral 
boat  dressed  in  gold  like  a  dogaressa  and  the  proces- 
sion was  leading  her  to  the  island  of  Murano  where 
a  Lord  of  Fire  was  to  enclose  her  in  a  veil  of  opales- 
cent glass  so  that  when  submerged  in  the  lagoon  she 
could  at  least  watch  the  sea-weed's  undulations.  .  .  , 
Do  you  remember?" 

"  It  was  an  evening  in  September." 

"  The  last  of  September,  the  evening  of  the  Alle- 
gory. There  was  a  great  light  on  the  water.  .  .  . 
You  were  a  little  excited :  you  talked  on  and  on.  .  .  . 
How  many  things  you  said !  You  had  just  come 
from  solitude  and  you  were  full  to  overflowing.  You 
poured  a  stream  of  poetry  over  your  friend.  There 
passed  a  boat  laden  with  pomegranates.  I  was  called 
Perdita  then.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember?" 

*  "  To  live  consumed  by  fire  and  not  to  feel  the  pain  I  ** 

•  "  My  lord,  I  know  that  I  live  no  more  in  me. 

And  I  see  henceforth  that  in  you  too  I  die." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  307 

She  herself,  as  she  walked,  felt  the  extreme  elas- 
ticity of  her  step,  felt  that  something  was  disappearing 
in  her  as  if  her  body  were  about  to  change  into  an 
empty  chrysalis.  The  sensations  of  her  own  physical 
person  seemed  to  depend  on  the  glass  she  was  carry- 
ing, seemed  only  to  exist  in  the  anxiety  caused  by 
its  frailty  and  the  fear  of  letting  it  fall,  while  her  bare 
hand  little  by  little  became  colder,  and  her  veins 
changed  to  the  colour  of  the  violet  edge  running 
round  the  lip  of  the  goblet. 

"  My  name  was  still  Perdita.  .  .  .  Have  you  in  mind, 
Stelio,  another  sonnet  of  Gaspara's  that  begins : 

"  '  lo  vorrei  pur  che  Amor  dicesse  come 
Debbo  seguirlo  '?...* 

And  the  madrigal  that  begins : 

"  '  Se  tu  credi  piacere  al  mio  signore*?  ,..*'* 

"  I  did  not  know  you  to  be  so  familiar  with  the 
poor  Anassilla,  my  friend." 

"  Ah,  I  will  tell  you.  ...  I  was  barely  fourteen 
years  old  when  I  acted  in  an  old  romantic  tragedy 
called  Gaspara  Stampa.  I  was  doing  the  leading 
part.  ...  It  was  at  Dolo  where  we  passed  the  other 
day  on  our  way  to  Strci.  It  was  in  a  small  country 
theatre  in  a  kind  of  tent.  ...  It  was  a  year  before 
my  mother  died.  ...  I  remember  quite  well.  ...  I 
can  remember  certain  things  as  if  they  had  happened 
yesterday,  —  and  twenty  years  have  passed.  I  can  re- 
member the  sound  of  my  voice,  which  was  weak  then, 
when  I  forced  it  in  the  tirades  because  some  one  in 

^  "  I  would  that  Love  would  also  say 

How  I  should  follow  him." 
*  "  If  you  think  to  please  my  lord.** 


3o8  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  wings  was  whispering  to  me  to  speak  louder,  still 
louder.  .  .  .  Gaspara  was  in  despair,  sorrowed,  raved 
for  her  cruel  Count.  .  .  .  There  were  so  many  things 
that  I  did  not  know,  that  my  small,  profaned  soul  did 
not  understand,  and  I  know  not  what  instinct  of  sor- 
row led  me  to  find  the  accent  and  the  cries  that  were 
to  shake  the  miserable  crowd  from  which  we  expected 
our  daily  bread.  Ten  starving  people  tortured  me, 
like  an  instrument  of  gain ;  brutal  necessity  was  cut- 
ting and  tearing  away  from  me  all  the  dream  flowers 
born  of  my  trembling  precocity.  It  was  a  time  of 
weeping  and  suffocation,  of  dismays,  of  uneasy  fatigue, 
of  reserved  horror.  Those  who  made  my  martyrdom 
did  not  know  what  they  were  doing,  poor  things, 
blunted  by  poverty  and  weariness.  God  forgive 
them  and  let  them  rest.  Only  my  mother  who,  she 
also,  Stelio, 

" '  Per  amar  molto  ed  esser  poco  amata 
Visse  e  mori  infelice,'  ^ 

only  my  mother  took  pity  on  me  and  suffered  from 
the  same  torment  as  myself  and  knew  how  to  hold 
me  in  her  arms,  how  to  calm  my  horrible  trembling, 
how  to  weep  with  me  and  comfort  me.  My  blessed, 
blessed  one !  " 

Her  voice  changed.  The  eyes  of  her  mother  once 
more  opened  within  her,  kind  and  firm  and  infinite  as 
an  horizon  of  peace.  "  You  must  tell  me,  you  must 
tell  me  what  I  should  do.  Guide  me,  teach  me,  you 
who  know."  Her  soul  felt  the  clasp  of  those  arms  and 
from  the  distance  of  years  the  pain  flowed  back  to 
her  in  all  its  fulness,  but  not  harsh,  having  turned 

*  "  For  having  loved  too  well  and  been  too  little  loved, 
Sorrowing  lived  and  died  " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  309 

almost  sweet.  The  memory  of  her  struggle  and  of 
her  sufferings  seemed  to  moisten  her  soul  with  a 
warm  flood,  upraise  and  comfort  it.  On  what  anvils 
had  the  iron  of  her  will  not  been  forged,  in  what 
waters  had  it  not  been  tempered?  The  test  had 
indeed  been  hard  for  her  and  the  victory  difficult, 
bought  at  the  price  of  labour  and  perseverance,  bought 
from  brute  forces  that  had  been  hostile.  She  had 
witnessed  the  darkest  poverties  and  sombre  ruin,  she 
had  known  heroic  efforts,  pity,  horror,  and  the  thresh- 
old of  death. 

"  I  know  what  hunger  is,  Stelio,  and  what  the 
approach  of  night  is  when  a  refuge  is  uncertain,"  she 
said  softly,  stopping  between  the  two  walls.  And 
she  raised  her  veil  towards  her  forehead,  looking  into 
her  friend's  face  with  her  free  eyes. 

He  grew  pale  under  those  eyes,  so  sudden  was  his 
emotion,  so  great  his  dismay  at  the  appearance  of 
that  unexpected  attitude.  He  found  himself  con- 
fused as  in  the  incoherence  of  a  dream,  incapable  of 
connecting  that  extraordinary  apparition  with  the 
recent  traces  of  life,  incapable  of  putting  the  meaning 
of  those  words  on  that  same  woman  who  was  smiling 
to  him,  still  holding  the  delicate  glass  in  her  naked 
fingers.  Yet  he  had  heard  what  she  had  said,  and 
she  was  there  before  him  in  her  great  sable  cape 
with  the  softness  still  about  her  of  the  beautiful  eyes 
that  lengthened  out  under  the  eyelashes  misty  as  if  a 
tear  continually  rose  into  them,  and  melted  unshed, 
there  before  him  in  the  solitary  path  between  the  two 
walls. 

"  And  there  are  other  things  that  I  have  known." 

It  did  her  good  to  speak  in  this  way.     His  humility 


310  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

seemed  to  give  her  heart  strength  like  the  most  dar- 
ing act  of  pride.  She  had  never  felt  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  dominion  and  her  worldly  glory  exalt  her 
before  the  man  she  loved,  but  now  the  memory  of 
her  obscure  martyrdom,  of  her  poverty  and  hunger, 
created  in  her  a  feeling  of  true  superiority  over  him 
whom  she  believed  invincible.  As  along  the  banks 
of  the  Brenta  his  words  had  seemed  vain  for  the 
first  time,  thus  for  the  first  time  she  felt  herself  in  her 
experience  of  life  stronger  than  him  whom  all  good 
fortune  had  protected  from  his  cradle  and  who  had 
not  suffered  except  from  the  fury  of  his  desires  and 
the  anxieties  of  his  ambition.  She  imagined  him 
grappling  with  necessity,  forced  to  labour  like  the 
slave,  oppressed  by  material  narrownesses,  subject  to 
vile  discomforts.  Would  he  have  found  the  energy 
to  resist,  the  patience  to  endure?  Under  the  sharp 
pinch  of  necessity,  she  pictured  him  weak  and  lost, 
humbled  and  broken.  "  Ah,  all  bright  superb  things 
are  for  you  as  long  as  you  live,  as  long  as  you  live." 
She  could  not  bear  the  sadness  of  that  image  and 
rejected  it  with  an  almost  maternal  impulse  of  defence 
and  protection.  And  by  an  involuntary  movement  she 
laid  one  hand  on  his  shoulder,  drew  it  back  when  he 
noticed,  then  placed  it  there  again.  She  smiled  like 
one  who  knows  what  he  should  nefver  know,  like 
one  who  has  won  victory  over  things  that  he  could 
never  have  conquered.  She  heard  within  herself  the 
words  heavy  with  the  terrible  promise:  "Tell  me 
you  are  not  afraid  of  suffering.  .  .  I  believe  your 
soul  to  be  capable  of  bearing  all  the  sorrow  of  the 
world."  Her  eyelids,  that  were  like  violets,  dropped 
over  her  secret  pride,  but  an  infinitely  subtle,  com* 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  311 

plex  beauty  appeared  in  the  lines  of  her  face,  a  beauty 
that  was  shed  by  a  new  concordance  of  inner  forces, 
by  a  mysterious  direction  of  her  reawakened  will ;  in 
the  shadow  that  descended  from  the  folds  of  her 
veil  gathered  up  round  her  eyelashes  an  inimitable 
life  animated  her  pallor. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  suffering,"  she  said,  answering 
him  who  had  spoken  on  the  bank  of  the  distant  river. 
And  lifting  her  hand  from  his  shoulder,  she  stroked 
her  friend's  cheek  and  then  he  understood  that  she 
had  answered  his  distant  words. 

He  was  silent,  intoxicated  as  if  she  had  given  him 
to  drink  the  very  essence  of  her  heart  pressed  out 
into  that  goblet.  Of  all  the  natural  forms  that  sur- 
rounded them,  in  the  diffused  light,  none  seemed  to 
him  to  equal  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  that  human 
face,  showing  as  it  did  beyond  its  features  glimpses  of 
a  sacred  depth  where  doubtless  some  great  thing  had 
been  accomplished  in  silence.  Quivering,  he  waited 
for  her  to  continue. 

They  walked  on  side  by  side  between  the  two 
walls.  The  path  was  a  narrow  one,  dull  and  soft  un- 
der foot,  but  the  refulgent  clouds  hung  above  it. 
They  reached  the  cross  roads  where  a  wretched  hovel 
stood  half  ruined.  La  Foscarina  stopped  to  look  at 
it,  the  gnarled,  unhinged  windows  were  held  open  by 
a  cane  fixed  across  them.  The  low  sun  as  it  pene- 
trated there  beat  on  the  smoky  walls,  revealed  the 
accessories :  a  table,  a  bench,  a  cradle. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Stelio,"  she  said,  **  that  inn 
where  we  went  in  at  Dolo,  to  wait  for  the  train  — 
Vampa's  inn?  A  huge  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate, 
the  crockery  shone  on  the  walls,  the  slices  of  polenta 


312  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

were  toasting  on  the  gridiron.  Twenty  years  ago, 
they  were  just  the  same  —  the  same  fire,  the  same 
crockery,  the  same  polenta.  My  mother  and  I  used 
to  go  in  after  the  performance ;  we  used  to  sit  down 
on  a  bench  in  front  of  a  table.  I  had  wept  in  the 
theatre,  I  had  shrieked,  raved  and  died  of  poison,  or 
by  the  sword.  The  sound  of  the  verses  would  still 
remain  in  my  ears,  like  a  voice  that  was  not  my  own, 
and  a  strange  will  persisted  in  my  soul  which  I  could 
not  drive  away,  like  a  figure  trying  to  perform  those 
steps  and  those  gestures  over  again  despite  my  inert- 
ness. .  .  .  The  counterfeit  of  life  remained  in  the 
muscles  of  my  face,  and  some  evenings  they  could 
not  rest.  The  mask,  the  sense  of  the  living  mask 
that  was  already  growing.  .  .  .  My  eyes  would  re- 
main staring.  A  steady  chill  continued  at  the  roots 
of  my  hair.  ...  I  could  not  succeed  in  recovering 
full  consciousness  of  myself  and  of  what  was  going  on 
around  me.  .  .  . 

"  The  odours  that  came  from  the  kitchen  nauseated 
me ;  the  food  that  was  on  the  dishes  seemed  to  me 
too  coarse,  heavy  as  stones,  impossible  to  swallow. 
My  repugnance  rose  from  something  unspeakably 
delicate  and  precious,  which  I  felt  at  the  depths  of 
my  weariness,  from  a  confused  nobility  which  I  felt 
beneath  my  humiliation.  ...  I  cannot  tell.  ...  It 
was  perhaps  the  obscure  presence  of  that  force  which 
developed  itself  in  me  afterwards,  of  that  election, 
of  that  difference  from  others  by  which  Nature  has 
marked  me  out.  .  .  .  Sometimes  the  feeling  of  that 
diversity  became  so  great  that  it  almost  estranged 
me  from  my  mother  —  may  God  forgive  me  !  —  that 
almost  separated  me   from  her.  ...  A  great  soli- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  313 

tude  was  making  its  way  within  me ;  nothing  that 
was  around  me  seemed  to  touch  me.  ...  I  used  to 
be  alone  with  my  fate.  My  mother,  who  was  be- 
side me,  was  retreating  into  infinite  distance.  Ah ! 
she  was  near  death  at  the  time,  and  was  being  pre- 
pared for  the  parting,  and  perhaps  these  were  the 
signs.  She  would  urge  me  to  eat  with  the  words 
she  only  could  say.  I  used  to  answer :  *  Wait !  wait.' 
I  could  only  drink,  I  had  a  great  thirst  for  fresh  water. 
Sometimes  when  I  was  still  more  tired  and  trembling 
I  would  go  on  smiling  a  long,  long  smile.  And  even 
my  blessed  one,  with  her  deep  heart,  could  not  under- 
stand whence  came  my  smile.  .  .  . 

"  Incomparable  hours,  in  which  it  seemed  as  if  the 
bodily  prison  were  being  broken  by  the  soul  that 
went  wandering  to  the  further  limits  of  life !  What 
must  your  youth  have  been,  Stelio?  Who  can 
imagine  it?  We  have  all  felt  the  weight  of  the 
sleep  that  falls  on  our  flesh,  all  of  a  sudden,  swift 
and  heavy  like  a  blow  from  a  hammer  after  toil  or 
ecstasy,  and  seems  to  annihilate  us.  But  the  power 
of  dreams,  too,  during  our  watching,  sometimes  takes 
hold  of  us  with  that  same  violence  ;  it  grasps  us,  and 
we  are  powerless  to  resist  it,  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
whole  tissue  of  our  existence  were  being  destroyed, 
as  if  our  hopes  were  weaving  another,  brighter  and 
more  strange,  with  those  same  threads,  .  .  .  Ah,  there 
come  back  to  my  memory  some  of  the  beautiful 
words  you  said  in  Venice  that  evening,  when  you 
pictured  her  marvellous  hands  intent  on  ordaining  her 
own  lights  and  shadows  in  an  uninterrupted  work  of 
beauty.    You  alone  can  describe  the  unutterable.  .  .  . 

"  On  that  bench  there  in  front  of  the  rough  table, 


314  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

in  Vampa's  inn  at  Dolo,  where  Fate  led  me  with  you 
again  the  other  day,  I  had  the  most  extraordinary 
visions  that  dreams  have  ever  awakened  in  my  soul. 
I  saw  that  which  cannot  be  forgotten;  I  saw  the  real 
forms  that  surrounded  me  clothe  themselves  with  the 
figures  that  were  growing  from  my  intellect  and  my 
instinct.  Under  my  fixed  eyes,  burnt  by  the  smoky 
red  naphtha  lights  of  the  temporary  stage,  the  world  of 
my  expressions  began  to  take  shape.  The  first  lines 
of  my  art  developed  themselves  in  that  condition  of  an- 
guish and  weariness,  of  fever  and  repugnance,  in  which 
my  sensibility  became  in  a  manner  almost  plastic, 
like  the  incandescent  material  we  saw  the  glass  work- 
ers holding  at  the  end  of  their  tubes.  There  was  in  it 
a  natural  aspiration  to  receive  form  and  breath,  to  fill 
the  hollow  of  a  mould.  On  certain  evenings,  on  that 
wall  covered  with  copper  saucepans,  I  could  see  my- 
self as  in  a  mirror,  in  an  attitude  of  pain  or  rage, 
with  a  face  that  I  did  not  recognise ;  and  my  eye- 
lids would  beat  rapidly  to  escape  that  hallucination 
and  to  break  the  fixity  of  my  look.  My  mother 
would  say  again  and  again :  *  Eat,  my  child,  eat  this 
at  least,'  But  what  were  bread,  wine,  meat,  fruits, 
all  those  heavy  things  bought  with  hard  toil,  com- 
pared to  what  I  had  within  me?  I  used  to  repeat: 
'  Wait !  '  and  when  we  rose  to  go  I  used  to  take  a 
piece  of  bread  with  me.  I  liked  to  eat  it  next  morn- 
ing in  the  country,  under  a  tree  or  on  the  banks  of  the 
Brenta,  sitting  on  a  stone  or  on  the  grass.  .  .  .  Oh, 
those  statues !  " 

La  Foscarina  stopped  once  more  at  the  end  of  an- 
other path  between  two  walls,  that  led  to  a  deserted 
field,  to  the  Campo-di-San-Bernardo,  where  the  old 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  315 

monastery  stood.  The  steeple  of  Santa-Maria-degli- 
Angeli  rose  beyond  it,  and  a  glorious  cloud  hung 
over  it  like  a  rose  upon  its  stem ;  and  the  grass  was 
as  soft,  as  green,  as  placid  as  in  the  park  of  the  Pisani 
at  Str^. 

"  Those  statues !  "  repeated  the  actress,  with  an 
intent  look  as  if  they  stood  there  in  front  of  her  in 
great  numbers,  hindering  her  on  her  way.  "  They  did 
not  recognise  me  the  other  day,  but  I  recognised 
them,  Stelio. " 

The  distant  hours,  the  wet  misty  landscape,  the 
leafless  trees,  the  villas  falling  to  ruin,  the  silent  river, 
the  relics  of  queens  and  empresses,  the  crystal  masks 
on  the  feverish  faces,  the  wild  labyrinth,  the  vain  pur- 
suit, the  terror,  and  the  agony,  the  splendid,  terrible 
pallor,  the  frozen  body  on  the  cushions  of  the  car- 
riage, the  lifeless  hands,  all  that  sadness  was  suddenly 
illumined  by  a  new  light  in  the  spirit  of  her  beloved. 
And  he  looked  at  the  marvellous  creature,  panting 
with  surprise  and  dismay,  as  if  he  were  seeing  her  for 
the  first  time,  and  her  features,  her  step,  her  voice, 
her  garments  held  manifold  and  extraordinary  signi- 
ficances that  were  as  inaccessible  to  him  in  their  num- 
ber and  rapidity  as  flashes  of  lightning. 

There  she  was,  a  creature  of  perishable  flesh,  sub- 
ject to  the  sad  laws  of  time ;  yet  a  vast  mass  of  real 
and  ideal  life  weighed  upon  her,  widened  round  her, 
throbbed  with  the  very  rhythm  of  her  breath.  The 
wandering,  despairing  woman  had  touched  the  Umits 
of  human  experience :  she  knew  that  which  he  would 
never  know.  He,  the  man  of  joy,  felt  the  attraction 
of  so  much  accumulated  sorrow,  of  so  much  humility 
and  so  much  pride,  of  so  great  a  war  and  so  great  a 


3i6  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

victory.  Willingly  he  would  have  lived  that  life  him- 
self. He  envied  her  her  fate.  Astonished,  he  watched 
the  veins  on  the  back  of  that  bare  hand,  delicate  and 
blue  as  though  the  skin  did  not  cover  them,  and  the 
small  nails  that  glittered  round  the  stem  of  the  goblet. 
He  thought  of  a  drop  of  that  blood  circulating  through 
her  substance,  limited  by  common  outlines,  and  yet 
as  immeasurable  as  the  Universe.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  only  one  temple  in  the  world,  and  that 
temple  was  the  human  body.  An  anxious  longing 
possessed  him  to  stop  the  woman,  to  stand  before 
her  and  examine  her  attentively,  to  discover  all  her 
aspects,  to  question  her  endlessly. 

Strange  questions  rose  up  in  his  spirit.  *'  Did 
you  pass  along  the  main  roads  when  you  were  a 
young  girl  on  the  cart  loaded  with  scenery,  lying  on 
a  bundle  of  leaves,  followed  by  a  group  of  strolling 
players?  Did  you  pass  through  the  vineyards,  and 
did  some  villager  offer  you  a  basket  of  grapes?  Had 
the  man  who  possessed  you  for  the  first  time  the 
figure  of  a  satyr  and  did  you  hear  the  wind  roaring  on 
the  plain  in  your  terror,  sweeping  away  that  part  of 
you  which  you  will  seek  for  ever  but  never  find  again? 
How  many  tears  you  must  have  drunk  on  the  day  I 
heard  you,  for  the  voice  of  Antigone  to  sound  so  pure 
in  you  ?  Did  you  win  the  nations  one  after  another 
as  battles  are  won  to  conquer  an  empire  ?  Do  you 
recognise  them  by  their  different  odours  as  one  rec- 
ognises wild  beasts?  One  nation  rebelled,  resisted 
you,  and  in  subjecting  it  you  loved  it  more  than  those 
which  had  worshipped  you  at  your  first  appearance. 
Another,  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  to  which  you 
revealed  a  new  unknown  manner  of  feeling,  cannot 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  317 

forget  you,  and  continually  sends  you  messages  for 
you  to  return.  What  sudden  beauties  shall  I  see  aris- 
ing from  your  love  and  your  sorrow?  " 

She  appeared  to  him  on  the  solitary  meadow  in  the 
forgotten  island,  under  the  clear  wintry  sky,  as  she 
had  appeared  to  him  in  the  far-off  Dionysian  night  in 
the  midst  of  the  praises  of  the  poets  who  had  sat  at 
the  supper  table.  The  same  power  of  imparting  life, 
the  same  power  of  revelation,  emanated  from  the 
woman  who  had  said  as  she  Hfted  her  veil,  "I  know 
what  hunger  is.  .  .  ." 

"  It  was  in  the  month  of  March,  I  remember, "  con- 
tinued la  Foscarina,  softly,  "  I  was  going  out  in  the 
meadows  early,  with  my  bread.  I  was  walking  at 
random.  The  statues  were  my  destination.  I  went 
from  one  to  the  other  and  stopped  before  each,  as  if 
visiting  them.  Some  seemed  to  me  lovely  and  I 
would  try  to  imitate  their  gestures,  but  as  if  by  in- 
stinct, I  remained  longer  with  the  mutilated  ones,  to 
comfort  them.  In  the  evening,  on  the  stage  during 
the  performance  I  would  remember  some  of  them, 
with  such  a  deep  feeling  of  their  distance  and  of  their 
solitude  in  the  quiet  country  under  the  stars,  that  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  not  speak  any  more.  The 
crowd  would  lose  patience  at  these  too  prolonged 
pauses.  At  certain  times  when  I  had  to  wait  for  my 
interlocutor's  first  tirade  to  be  finished,  I  would  stand 
in  the  attitude  of  some  one  of  them  which  was  familiar 
to  me,  and  remain  motionless  as  if  I  too  had  been  of 
stone.  I  was  already  beginning  to  shape  my  own 
self.  .  .  ." 

She  smiled.  The  grace  of  her  melancholy  sur- 
passed the  grace  of  the  declining  day. 


3i8  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

"  I  tenderly  loved  one  that  had  lost  the  arms  it 
had  once  used  to  hold  a  basket  of  fruit  on  its  head. 
But  the  hands  were  fastened  to  the  basket  and  moved 
my  pity.  It  rose  on  its  pedestal  in  a  field  of  flax ;  a 
small  canal  stagnated  close  by,  and  in  it  the  sky's  re- 
flection continued  the  blue  of  the  flowers.  If  I  shut 
my  eyes  I  can  still  see  the  stony  face  and  the  sun 
that  coloured  itself  in  passing  through  the  stalks  of 
the  flax,  as  through  a  green  glass.  Always,  ever 
since  that  time,  on  the  stage,  in  the  most  heated 
moments  of  my  art,  there  rise  visions  of  some  land- 
scape to  my  memory,  especially  when  by  the  mere 
force  of  silence  I  succeed  in  communicating  a  great 
quiver  to  the  crowd  that  is  listening.  .  .  ." 

She  had  flushed  a  little  at  the  cheekbones,  and,  as 
the  oblique  sun  wrapped  her  round,  drawing  sparks 
from  her  sables  and  from  the  goblet,  her  animation 
seemed  an  increase  of  light. 

"  What  a  spring  that  was  !  In  one  of  my  wander- 
ings I  saw  a  great  river  for  the  first  time.  It  appeared 
all  of  a  sudden,  swollen,  flowing  rapidly  between  wild 
banks  in  a  plain  burning  like  stubble  under  the  level 
rays  of  the  sun,  that  grazed  its  outskirts  like  a  red 
wheel.  I  felt  then  how  much  divinity  there  is  in  a 
great  river  flowing  through  the  earth.  It  was  the 
Adige,  coming  down  from  Verona,  from  the  city  of 
Juliet.  .  .  ." 

An  ambiguous  emotion  was  taking  hold  of  her  as 
she  recalled  the  poetry  and  poverty  of  her  youth. 
She  was  driven  to  continue  by  a  kind  of  fascination, 
nevertheless  she  did  not  know  how  she  had  arrived 
at  these  confessions,  when  she  had  meant  to  speak  to 
her  friend  of  another  young  Hfe  which  was  not  past, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  319 

but  present.  By  what  deception  of  love  had  she 
been  brought  from  the  sudden  tension  of  her  will, 
from  her  resolute  decision  of  facing  the  painful  truth, 
from  the  gathering  up  of  her  mislaid  energy  to  linger 
in  the  memory  of  by-gone  days,  and  to  cover  with 
her  own  lost  virgin  self  that  other  one  which  was  so 
different? 

"  We  entered  Verona  one  evening  in  the  month  of 
May  through  the  gate  of  the  Palio.  Anxiety  suffo- 
cated me.  I  held  the  copy-book,  where  I  had  copied 
out  the  part  of  Juliet  with  my  own  hand,  tightly 
against  my  heart,  and  constantly  repeated  to  myself 
the  words  of  my  first  entrance :  '  How  now !  Who 
calls?  I  am  here.  What  is  your  will?'  A  strange 
coincidence  had  excited  my  imagination :  I  was  four- 
teen years  old  on  that  very  day,  —  the  age  of  Juliet ! 
The  gossip  of  the  Nurse  buzzed  in  my  ears ;  httle  by 
little  my  destiny  seemed  to  be  getting  mixed  up  with 
the  destiny  of  the  Veronese  maiden.  At  the  corner 
of  every  street  I  thought  I  saw  a  crowd  coming 
towards  me  and  accompanying  a  coffin  covered  with 
white  roses.  As  soon  as  I  saw  the  Arche  degli 
Scaligeri,  closed  with  iron  nails,  I  cried  out  to  my 
mother,  '  Here  is  the  tomb  of  Juliet.'  And  I  be- 
gan to  weep  bitterly  with  a  desperate  desire  of  love 
and  death.  '  Oh,  you,  too  early  seen  unknown,  and 
known  too  late.' " 

Her  voice,  as  it  repeated  the  immortal  words,  pene- 
trated the  heart  of  her  lover  hke  a  heart-rending 
melody.     She  paused  a  moment  and  repeated, — 

"  Too  late." 

They  were  the  very  words  uttered  by  her  beloved, 
which  she  herself  had  repeated  in  the  garden  where 


320  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  hidden  stars  of  the  jessamine  blossoms  had  given 
forth  their  sharp  perfume  and  the  fruit  had  smelt  as 
it  does  in  the  island  gardens,  when  both  had  been 
about  to  yield  to  their  cruel  desire :  "  It  is  late, 
too  late !  "  The  ageing  woman  on  the  good  grass 
now  stood  before  the  old  image  of  herself,  of  her  own 
virginity,  panting  in  the  garb  of  Juliet  before  her 
love's  first  dream.  Having  attained  the  limit  of  her 
experience,  had  she  not  preserved  that  dream  intact 
over  men  and  time?  —  but  to  what  end?  Here  she 
was,  bringing  up  her  dead,  distant  youth  only  to  tread 
it  under  foot  as  she  led  her  lover  to  that  other  woman 
who  was  alive  and  expectant. 

With  the  smile  of  her  inimitable  suffering  she  said : 
"  I  have  been  Juliet." 

The  air  around  them  was  so  calm  that  the  smoke 
from  the  furnace  chimneys  tarried  there,  contaminat- 
ing it.  Gold  quivered  everywhere.  The  cloud  on 
the  belfry  of  the  Angeli  was  growing  crimson  round 
the  edges.  The  water  was  invisible,  but  its  sweetness 
was  passing  over  the  face  of  things. 

"  One  Sunday  in  May,  in  the  immense  arena  in  the 
ancient  amphitheatre  under  the  open  sky,  I  have 
been  Juliet  before  a  popular  multitude  that  had 
breathed  in  the  legend  of  love  and  death.  No  quiver 
from  the  most  vibrating  audiences,  no  applause,  no 
triumph  has  ever  meant  the  same  to  me  as  the  ful- 
ness and  the  intoxication  of  that  great  hour.  Truly, 
when  I  heard  Romeo  saying,  '  Ah,  she  doth  teach  the 
torches  to  burn  bright ! '  truly  my  whole  being 
kindled;  I  became  a  flame.  I  had  bought  a  great 
bunch  of  roses  with  my  little  savings,  in  the  Piazza 
delle  Erbe,  under  the  fountain  of  Madonna  Verona. 


THE  EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  321 

The  roses  were  my  only  ornament.  I  mingled  them 
with  my  words,  with  my  gestures,  with  each  attitude  of 
mine.  I  let  one  fall  at  the  feet  of  Romeo  when  we 
first  met;  I  strewed  the  leaves  of  another  on  his 
head  from  the  balcony ;  and  I  covered  his  body  with 
the  whole  of  them  in  the  tomb.  The  air,  the  light,  and 
their  perfume  ravished  me.  Words  slipped  from  me 
with  strange  ease,  almost  involuntarily  as  in  delirium, 
and  together  with  them  I  could  hear  the  continual 
accompaniment  made  by  the  dizzy  throb  of  my  veins; 
I  could  see  the  deep  amphitheatre,  half  in  sunshine, 
half  in  shadow,  and  in  the  illuminated  part  a  glitter  as 
of  thousands  and  thousands  of  eyes.  The  day  was  a 
quiet  one  like  to-day.  There  was  not  a  breath  to 
ruffle  the  folds  of  my  dress  or  the  hair  that  fluttered 
on  my  bare  neck.  The  sky  was  very  far,  yet  now 
and  then  it  seemed  as  if  my  weakest  words  must 
sound  in  its  farthest  distances,  like  a  clap  of  thunder, 
or  that  its  blue  was  becoming  so  deep  that  I  was 
coloured  by  it  as  by  a  sea  water  that  was  drowning 
me.  And  at  intervals,  my  eyes  would  travel  to  the 
long  grasses  growing  at  the  summit  of  the  walls,  and 
there  seemed  to  come  to  me  from  them  I  know  not 
what  encouragement  to  what  I  was  saying  and  doing; 
and  when  I  saw  them  sway  at  the  first  breath  of  wind 
that  was  rising  from  the  hills,  I  felt  my  animation 
increase  and  with  it  the  strength  of  my  voice.  How 
I  spoke  of  the  lark  and  the  nightingale  !  I  had  heard 
them  both  in  the  country  a  thousand  times.  I  knew 
all  their  melodies  of  the  wood,  the  field,  and  the  sky ; 
I  had  them  wild  and  living  in  my  ears.  Each  word 
before  leaving  my  lips  seemed  to  have  passed  through 
all  the  warmth  of  my  blood.     There  was  no  fibre  in 


322  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

me  which  did  not  give  forth  an  harmonious  sound. 
Ah,  grace  !  the  state  of  grace  !  Each  time  it  is  given 
me  to  touch  the  summit  of  my  art  I  recover  that  un- 
speakable abandonment.  I  was  Juhet.  '  It  is  day,  it  is 
day !  '  I  cried  out  in  my  terror.  The  wind  was  in 
my  hair.  I  could  feel  the  extraordinary  silence  on 
which  my  lamentation  fell.  The  crowd  seemed  to 
have  disappeared  below  ground.  It  sat  silent  on  the 
curved  steps  that  were  now  in  shadow.  Above  it 
the  top  of  the  wall  was  still  red.  I  was  telling  of  the 
terror  of  day,  but  I  already  truly  felt  '  the  mask  of 
night'  on  my  face.  Romeo  had  descended.  We 
were  already  both  dead,  both  had  already  entered 
into  darkness.  Do  you  remember?  *  Now  that  you 
are  there,  you  appear  like  a  corpse  at  the  bottom  of  a 
sepulchre.  Either  my  eyes  deceive  me  or  you  are 
very  pale.'  I  was  icy  cold  as  I  said  these  things. 
My  eyes  sought  the  glimmer  of  light  at  the  top  of  the 
wall.  It  had  gone  out.  The  people  were  clamour- 
ing in  the  arena,  demanding  the  death  scene ;  they 
would  no  longer  listen  to  the  mother  or  the  nurse  or 
the  monk.  The  quiver  of  its  impatience  intolerably 
quickened  the  throbbing  of  my  own  heart.  The 
tragedy  was  hurrying  on.  I  still  have  the  memory  of 
a  great  sky  white  as  pearls,  and  of  a  noise  as  of  the 
sea  that  quieted  down  when  I  appeared,  and  of  the 
smell  of  pitch  that  came  from  the  torches,  and  of 
the  roses  that  covered  me  being  faded  by  my  fever, 
and  of  a  distant  sound  of  bells  that  brought  the  sky 
nearer  to  us,  and  of  that  sky  that  was  losing  its  light 
little  by  little  as  I  was  losing  my  life,  and  of  a  star, 
the  first  star,  that  trembled  in  my  eyes  with  my  tears. 
.  .  .  When  I  fell  lifeless  on  the  body  of  Romeo,  the 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  323 

howl  of  the  crowd  in  the  shadow  was  so  violent  that  I 
was  frightened.  Some  one  raised  me  up  and  dragged 
me  towards  that  howl.  Some  one  brought  the  torch 
close  to  my  tear-stained  face ;  it  crackled  hard  and 
smelt  of  pitch  and  was  red  and  black,  smoke  and 
flame.  That  too,  like  the  star,  I  shall  never  forget. 
And  my  face  must  certainly  have  been  the  colour 
of  death.  .  .  .  Thus,  Stelio,  one  night  in  May,  Juliet 
came  to  life  again  and  was  shown  to  the  people  of 
Verona." 

She  stopped  once  more,  closing  her  eyes  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  turned  dizzy,  but  her  sorrowful  lips  still 
smiled  at  her  friend. 

"  Then?  The  need  of  moving,  of  going  anywhere, 
of  passing  through  space,  of  breathing  in  the  wind.  .  .  . 
My  mother  followed  me  in  silence.  We  crossed  a 
bridge,  walked  along  the  Adige,  then  crossed  another 
bridge,  entered  a  small  street,  lost  ourselves  in  the 
dark  alleys,  found  a  square  with  a  church  in  it,  and 
so  on,  on,  ever  on.  My  mother  asked  me  now  and 
then,  'Where  are  we  going?'  I  wanted  to  find  a 
Franciscan  convent  where  the  tomb  of  Juliet  was 
hidden,  since  to  my  great  sorrow  they  had  not  buried 
her  in  one  of  those  beautiful  tombs  closed  in  by  fine 
gates.  But  I  did  not  want  to  say  it,  and  I  could  not 
have  spoken.  To  open  my  mouth,  to  utter  a  single 
word  was  as  impossible  to  me  as  to  detach  a  star 
from  the  sky.  My  voice  had  lost  itself  with  the  last 
syllable  of  the  dying  Juliet.  My  lips  had  remained 
sealed  by  a  silence  necessary  as  death.  And  all  my 
body  seemed  half  alive,  now  icy,  now  burning,  and 
now  I  don't  know,  as  if  only  the  joints  of  my  bones 
were  burning  and  all  the  rest  were  icy.     '  Where  are 


324  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

we  going?*  that  kind  anguish  asked  of  me  once  more. 
Ah,  the  last  word  of  Juliet  answered  within  me.  We 
were  again  near  the  water  on  the  Adige,  at  the  head 
of  a  bridge.  I  think  I  began  to  run,  because  shortly 
afterwards  I  felt  myself  seized  by  my  mother's  arms 
and  I  remained  there  crushed  against  the  parapet, 
suffocated  by  my  sobs.  'Let  us  throw  ourselves 
down !  let  us  throw  ourselves  down ! '  I  would  have 
said,  but  I  could  not.  The  river  was  carrying  in 
it  the  night  with  all  its  stars,  and  I  felt  that  that  desire 
of  annihilation  was  not  in  me  alone.  .  .  .  Ah,  blessed 
one !  " 

She  turned  very  pale,  her  whole  soul  feeling  once 
more  the  clasp  of  those  arms,  the  kiss  of  those  lips,  the 
tears  of  that  tenderness,  the  depth  of  that  suffering. 
But  she  glanced  at  her  friend  and  suddenly  a  quick 
flood  of  blood  spread  over  her  cheeks  and  rose  as 
far  as  her  brow,  as  if  brought  there  by  a  feeling  of 
secret  modesty. 

"What  am  I  telling  you?  Why  am  I  speaking  to 
you  of  all  these  things?  One  talks  on  and  on  with- 
out knowing  why." 

She  lowered  her  eyes  in  her  confusion.  At  the 
memory  of  the  mysterious  terror  that  had  preceded 
her  womanhood,  at  the  memory  of  her  mother's 
grieved  love,  the  original  instinct  of  her  sex  stirred 
in  her  barren  bosom.  Her  feminine  avidity,  that  re- 
belled against  the  heroic  design  of  total  abnegation, 
experienced  a  strange  emotion,  became  willing  to  be 
deluded.  From  the  very  roots  of  her  substance  there 
arose  an  unformed  aspiration  that  she  dared  not  con- 
template. The  possibility  of  a  divine  compensation 
flashed  on  the  sadness  of  the  inevitable  renunciation. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  325 

She  felt  the  shaking  of  her  heart,  but  she  was  like 
one  who  dares  not  look  up  to  an  unknown  face  for 
fear  of  reading  there  a  sentence  of  life  or  death. 
She  was  afraid  of  suddenly  seeing  that  thing  dissolve 
which  was  not  hope  and  yet  was  similar  to  hope, 
born  of  her  soul  as  well  as  of  body  in  so  unexpected 
a  manner.  She  became  impatient  of  the  great  light 
that  kindled  the  sky,  of  the  places  they  were  passing, 
of  the  steps  she  was  taking,  of  the  very  presence  of 
her  friend.  She  thought  of  the  half-waking  softness, 
the  lingering  slumber  of  dawn  when  a  veiled  design 
lightly  guides  a  happy  dream.  She  longed  for  soli- 
tude, for  quiet,  for  her  distant  secluded  room,  for  the 
shadow  of  heavy  curtains.  Suddenly,  with  an  impet- 
uous anxiety  that  rose  from  that  impatience  as  if  she 
wanted  to  fix  by  a  mental  act  a  phantom  that  was 
about  to  melt  away,  she  formed  some  words,  and  they 
reached  as  far  as  her  lips,  but  did  not  move  them : 
"  A  child,  from  you  !  " 

She  turned  to  her  friend  and  all  trembling  looked 
him  in  the  eyes.  Her  secret  thought  swayed  in  her 
eyes,  like  a  thing  that  was  both  prayer  and  despair. 
She  seemed  to  be  anxiously  seeking  in  him  some  un- 
revealed  mark,  some  unknown  aspect,  almost  another 
man.     She  called  him  gently,  — 

"  Stelio !  " 

And  her  voice  was  so  changed  that  the  young  man 
started  inwardly  and  turned  as  if  to  help  her. 

"  My  friend,  my  friend  !  " 

Fearful  and  surprised  he  watched  the  wide  waves 
of  life  that  were  passing  through  her,  the  extraordi- 
nary expressions,  the  alternate  lights  and  shadows, 
and   he   dared   not   speak  and   dared    not   interrupt 


326  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  occult  workings  that  were  agitating  the  powers  of 
that  great,  miserable  soul ;  he  could  only  feel  con« 
fusedly  beneath  her  words  the  beauty  and  the  sad- 
ness of  unexpressed  things ;  and  while  he  was  certain 
that  some  difficult  good  was  about  to  rise  from  so 
great  a  fever,  yet  he  knew  not  the  aim  to  which  that 
love  would  be  led  by  its  necessity  of  becoming  per- 
fect or  perishing.  His  spirit  hung  in  an  expectation 
that  was  full  of  wonder,  feeling  itself  Hve  with  so 
much  fervour  in  those  forgotten  places,  on  the  lowly 
grass,  along  the  silent  path.  He  had  never  ex- 
perienced a  deeper  feeling  of  the  incalculable  strength 
of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable.  And  it  seemed 
to  him  as  he  listened  to  the  throb  of  his  own  heart, 
as  he  divined  the  violence  of  the  other's  throbbing, 
that  he  could  hear  the  strokes  of  the  hammer  beating 
on  the  hard  anvil  where  human  destiny  is  forged. 

"  Tell  me  more,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  get  still 
nearer  to  you,  dear  soul.  No  moment  since  I  have 
loved  you  has  been  worth  the  road  along  which  we 
have  gone  together  to-day." 

She  was  moving  on  with  bent  head,  rapt  in  the  illu- 
sion "  Could  it  be?  "  She  felt  her  barrenness  about 
her  like  an  iron  belt.  She  considered  the  inexorable 
obstinacy  of  the  maladies  rooted  in  brute  flesh.  But 
the  power  of  her  passion,  and  of  her  desire,  strength- 
ened by  an  idea  of  justice,  appeared  to  her  in  the  act 
of  accomplishing  a  miracle.  And  all  that  was  super- 
stitious in  her  nature  rose  to  blind  her  lucidity  and 
flatter  a  rising  hope.  "Have  I  ever  loved  before 
now?  Have  I  not  waited  for  years  for  this  great  love 
that  is  to  save  or  destroy  me  ?  From  which  of  all  those 
who  have  increased  my  wretchedness  would  I  have 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  327 

desired  a  child  ?  Is  it  not  just  that  a  new  life  should 
come  forth  from  my  life,  now  that  I  have  made  the 
entire  gift  of  myself  to  my  master?  Have  I  not 
brought  him  my  girlhood's  dream  intact,  the  dream 
of  Juliet?  Has  not  all  my  life  been  abolished,  from 
that  spring  evening  to  one  autumn  night?"  She 
saw  the  whole  universe  transfigured  by  her  illusion. 
The  memory  of  her  mother  gave  her  a  sublime  image 
of  maternal  love ;  the  kind,  firm  eyes  opened  within 
her  again  and  she  prayed  to  them.  "  Oh,  tell  me 
that  I  too  shall  be  for  a  creature  of  my  flesh  and  of 
my  soul  what  you  have  been  for  me.  Give  me  that 
assurance,  you  who  know."  Her  past  solitude 
seemed  terrifying.  All  she  could  see  in  the  future 
was  death  or  that  one  hope  of  salvation.  She  thought 
she  could  have  borne  every  test  in  order  to  deserve  it, 
looked  upon  it  as  a  grace  to  be  implored,  felt  herself 
invaded  by  a  religious  ardour  of  sacrifice.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  feverish  throb  of  her  distant  youth  which  she 
had  called  up  were  being  renewed  in  her  emotion,  and 
that  she  were  being  once  more  impelled  on  her  way 
under  the  sky  by  an  almost  mystic  force. 

She  was  going  towards  the  figure  of  Donatella  Ar- 
vale,  outlined  on  the  inflamed  horizon  at  the  end  of  a 
road  that  opened  on  the  water.  And  her  first  sudden 
question  re-echoed  within  her :  "  Do  you  often  think 
of  Donatella  Arvale,  Stelio?" 

A  short  road  led  to  the  Fondamenta  degU  Angeli, 
to  the  canal  encumbered  with  fishing-boats,  whence 
the  great  lagoon  was  visible,  calm  and  radiant. 

She  said :  — 

"  How  beautiful  the  light  is  !  It  is  like  that  evening 
when  my  name  was  still  Perdita,  Stelio." 


328  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  was  touching  a  note  that  she  had  already 
touched  in  a  prelude  that  had  been  interrupted. 

"  It  was  the  last  evening  in  September,"  she  added ; 
"  do  you  remember?  " 

She  had  lifted  up  her  heart  so  high  that  it  seemed 
at  times  as  if  it  failed  her,  as  if  the  strength  of  her 
feeling  was  no  longer  in  her  power,  but  could  escape 
her  from  one  moment  to  another,  and  leave  her  a 
prey  to  those  troubled  furies,  to  the  sudden  impulse 
to  which  she  had  already  yielded  more  than  once. 
She  intended  that  her  voice  should  not  tremble  in 
uttering  the  name  that  must  needs  rise  in  the  silence 
between  her  friend  and  herself. 

*'  Do  you  remember  the  man-of-war  anchored  in 
front  of  the  gardens  ?  —  a  salute  greeted  the  flag  as  it 
slipped  down  the  mast.  The  gondola  grazed  the 
ironclad  as  it  passed." 

She  gave  herself  a  moment's  pause.  An  inimitable 
life  animated  her  pallor. 

"  Then  in  its  shadow  you  uttered  the  name  of 
Donatella." 

She  made  a  fresh  effort,  like  a  person  swimming 
and  submerged  by  a  new  wave  shaking  his  head  above 
the  foam. 

"  She  began  to  be  yours." 

She  felt  herself  stiffening  from  head  to  foot,  as  if 
under  the  effect  of  a  poisoned  prick.  Her  eyes  were 
staring  fixedly  at  the  dazzling  waters. 

"  She  must  be  yours,"  she  said,  with  the  hardness 
of  necessity  in  her  voice,  as  if  to  resist  with  a  second 
shock  the  terrible  things  that  were  struggling  to  rise 
from  the  depth  of  her  fire. 

Seized  by  violent  anguish,  incapable  of  speaking, 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  329 

of  interrupting  with  a  vain  word  the  lightning-like  ap- 
paritions of  her  tragic  soul,  Stelio  Efifrena  stopped, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  his  companion's  arm  to  make 
her  stop  also. 

"  Is  it  not  true?"  she  asked  him  with  almost  quiet 
sweetness,  as  if  her  contraction  had  relaxed  sud- 
denly and  her  passion  had  accepted  the  yoke  laid 
upon  it  by  her  will.  "  Speak  to  me.  I  am  not  afraid 
of  suffering.  Let  us  sit  down  here.  I  am  a  little 
tired." 

They  rested  against  a  low  wall  in  view  of  the 
waters.  The  calm  of  the  winter  solstice  on  the  la- 
goon was  so  pure  that  the  shape  of  the  clouds  and 
of  the  objects  along  the  shore  seemed  given  a  kind  of 
ideal  quality  in  their  reflection  there,  as  if  they  were 
being  imitated  by  art.  Near  and  distant  things,  the 
red  palace  of  the  Da  Mula  on  the  canal,  and  farther 
the  fort  of  Tessara,  had  the  same  distinctness, —  the 
black  boats  with  their  folded  sails,  with  their  nets  hung 
along  the  masts,  seemed  to  gather  in  their  hulls  the 
feeling  of  infinite  repose  that  came  from  the  horizon. 
Human  pain  seemed  powerless  to  move  any  of  those 
lines,  and  all  seemed  to  teach  silence,  giving  man  a 
promise  of  peace  in  time. 

"  What  can  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  the  young  man,  in  a 
suffocated  voice,  almost  as  if  he  had  been  speaking  to 
himself,  instead  of  to  the  woman,  unable  to  overcome 
the  agitation  made  up  of  the  certainty  of  his  present 
love  and  the  consciousness  of  his  desire,  which  was 
inexorable  as  destiny.  "  Perhaps  what  you  have  im- 
agined is  true,  perhaps  it  is  only  a  thought  of  your 
own  mind.  There  is  to-day  only  one  certain  thing 
which  I  know :  that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  recognise 


330  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

in  you  all  which  is  noble.  I  also  know  another  thing: 
that  I  have  a  work  to  accomplish  and  a  life  to  live  ac- 
cording to  the  disposition  of  nature.  You,  too,  must 
remember.  On  that  evening  in  September  I  spoke 
to  you  at  great  length  of  my  life  and  of  the  genii  that 
lead  it  to  its  aim.  You  know  that  I  can  give  up 
nothing.  .  .  ." 

He  trembled  as  if  he  were  holding  a  sharpened 
weapon  in  his  hands,  and  in  moving  it  could  not 
avoid  hurting  the  unarmed. 

"  Nothing ;  and  especially  I  cannot  give  up  your 
love,  which  every  day  exalts  my  strength  and  my 
hope.  But  have  you  not  promised  me  more  than 
love.''  Are  you  not  capable,  for  me  also,  *  of  those 
things  which  love  cannot  do?  Do  you  not  wish  to  be 
a  constant,  quickening  breath  for  my  Hfe  and  my 
work?" 

She  was  listening,  motionless,  without  so  much  as 
the  throb  of  an  eyelid.  Like  an  invalid,  in  whom  the 
action  of  voluntary  motion  is  suddenly  suspended,  and 
who  assists,  like  a  spirit  in  a  statue,  at  a  sight  full  of 
horror. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  went  on,  after  an  anxious  pause, 
recovering  his  courage,  dominating  his  compassion, 
feeling  that  on  his  sincerity  of  that  moment  the  fate 
depended  of  that  free  alliance  by  which  he  intended 
to  be  upraised  and  not  lowered,  —  "  It  is  true  ;  when 
I  saw  you  come  down  that  staircase  on  that  night  ac- 
companied by  her  who  had  sung,  I  believed  that 
some  secret  thought  was  guiding  you  not  to  come 
alone  towards  me.  .  .  ." 

She  felt  a  subtle  chill  run  along  the  roots  of  her 
hair  and  her  eye  grow  dim,  although  they  remained 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  331 

quite  dry.  Her  fingers  trembled  round  the  stem  of 
the  goblet,  while  the  colours  of  sky  and  water  tinted 
the  glass  that  trembled  in  the  sorrowful  hand. 

"  I  believed  that  you  yourself  had  chosen  her.  .  .  . 
You  had  the  appearance  of  one  who  knows  and  fore- 
sees. ...  I  was  moved  by  it." 

She  measured  by  her  frightful  torture  how  sweet 
his  falsehood  would  have  been.  She  longed  for  him 
to  lie,  or  be  silent.  She  measured  the  space  that 
divided  her  from  the  canal,  from  the  water  that 
swallows  and  deadens. 

"  There  was  in  her  something  hostile,  as  if  she 
were  against  me.  .  .  .  She  remained  obscure  to  me, 
impenetrable.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  way  she  dis- 
appeared ;  her  image  grew  pale,  and  it  was  only  the 
desire  of  her  song  that  remained.  You  who  led  her 
to  me  have  more  than  once  revived  her  image.  You 
have  seen  her  shadow  where  it  was  not." 

She  saw  the  face  of  death.  No  other  thrust  had 
pierced  farther,  had  wounded  her  more  deeply. 
"  With  my  own  hand !  With  my  own  hand  !  "  And 
she  heard  once  more  the  cry  that  had  been  her  ruin : 
"  She  awaits  you !  "  And  from  second  to  second 
her  knees  seemed  to  give  way  still  more,  her  worn- 
out  body  seemed  nearer  to  obeying  the  furious  im- 
pulse that  was  pushing  her  towards  the  water.  But 
there  remained  one  lucid  point  in  her,  and  she  con- 
sidered that  that  was  neither  the  place  nor  the  time. 
The  sand  banks  left  dry  by  the  low  tide  were  be- 
ginning to  blacken  on  the  lagoon.  All  of  a  sudden, 
the  inner  storm  seemed  to  lose  itself  behind  a  mere 
appearance.  She  believed  herself  to  be  non-existent, 
marvelled  at  seeing  the   glass  shining  in  her  hand, 


332  THE   FLAME   OF    LIFE 

lost  all  sense  of  her  own  body.  All  that  was  happen- 
ing was  imaginary.  Her  name  was  Perdita.  The 
dead  summer  lay  in  the  depths  of  the  lagoon.  Words 
were  only  words. 

"Could  I  love  her?" 

One  breath  more  and  darkness  would  have  come. 
As  the  flame  of  a  candle  bends  under  the  wind  as  if 
about  to  separate  from  the  wick,  yet  still  adheres  to 
it  by  a  slight  azure  fragment,  almost  by  a  pale  spark, 
yet  will  soon  kindle  and  straighten  itself  again  at  the 
ceasing  of  the  wind,  the  wretched  woman's  reason 
came  near  to  being  extinguished.  The  breath  of 
madness  passed  over  her.  Terror  whitened  and 
convulsed  her  face. 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  stared  fixedly  at  the 
stones. 

"  Were  I  to  meet  her  again,  should  I  long  to  turn 
her  destiny  towards  me  ?  " 

He  could  see  her  youthful  person  again  with  its 
curved,  powerful  figure  arising  from  the  sonorous 
forest  among  the  alternate  motions  of  the  violin  bows 
that  seemed  to  draw  their  occult  note  from  the 
hidden  music  that  was  in  her. 

"  Perhaps." 

Again  he  saw  the  Hermes-like  face,  almost  ada- 
mantine in  its  hardness,  filled  with  some  most  secret 
thought,  and  the  frown  that  made  it  hostile. 

"  And  of  what  avail  would  that  be  ?  Of  what  avail 
would  all  the  vicissitudes  and  all  the  necessities  of 
life  be  against  the  faith  which  binds  us?  Could 
we  two  ever  resemble  meaner  lovers  who  spend 
their  days  struggling  to  overcome  each  other,  weep- 
ing and  cursing?  " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  333 

She  ground  her  teeth ;  the  wild  instinct  to  defend 
herself,  and  to  hurt  as  in  a  desperate  struggle  over- 
powered her.  The  flash  of  a  murderous  desire  darted 
on  the  fluctuations  of  her  thought. 

"  No,  you  shall  not  have  her  —  " 

And  the  cruelty  of  her  master  seemed  monstrous 
to  her.  She  seemed  to  be  bleeding  under  the  meas- 
ured and  repeated  blows  like  the  man  she  had  once 
seen  on  the  white  road  in  a  mining  town.  The  hor- 
rible scene  returned  to  her  memory :  the  man  pros- 
trated by  a  blow  from  a  mace  rising  and  trying  to 
throw  himself  against  his  enemy,  and  the  mace  that 
was  hurled  at  him  again,  the  blows  aimed  one  after 
another  by  a  firm,  calm  hand,  their  dull  thud  on  the 
man's  head,  the  obstinate  rising,  the  tenaciousness  of 
life,  the  flesh  of  his  face  reduced  to  a  kind  of  red  pulp. 
The  images  of  the  frightful  memory  mingled  with  the 
reality  of  her  torture  in  her  mental  incoherence. 
She  rose  as  if  moved  by  a  spring,  impelled  by  the 
savage  force  that  had  invaded  her  veins.  The  glass 
broke  in  her  convulsed  hand,  wounded  her,  fell  at  her 
feet  in  atoms. 

The  man  started.  Her  motionless  silence  had  de- 
ceived him,  and  now  he  looked  at  her  and  saw  her; 
and  again  he  saw,  as  on  that  evening  when  the  fire- 
brands had  crackled,  the  features  of  folly  outline 
themselves  on  her  disordered  face.  He  stammered 
as  if  in  pain,  but  impatience  was  boiling  beneath  his 
dismay. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  woman,  overcoming  her  tremor 
with  a  bitterness  that  contorted  her  mouth,  "  how 
strong  I  am  !  Another  time  your  wounds  should  not 
be  so  slow,  since  I  resist  so  little,  my  friend." 


334  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  noticed  that  the  blood  was  dripping  from 
her  fingers ;  she  wrapped  them  in  her  handker- 
chief; crimson  stains  spotted  it.  She  glanced  at 
the  fragments  of  glass  scattered  shining  on  the 
ground. 

"  The  goblet  is  broken.  You  had  praised  it 
too  much.  Shall  we  raise  a  mausoleum  for  it 
here?" 

She  was  very  bitter,  almost  mocking,  her  lips  con- 
tracted by  a  sharp  laugh  that  had  no  resonance.  He 
was  silent,  disappointed,  full  of  rancour  at  having 
seen  the  destruction  of  so  beautiful  an  effort  as  that 
perfect  vase. 

"  Let  us  imitate  Nero,  having  already  imitated 
Xerxes." 

She  felt  even  more  acutely  than  her  friend  the 
harshness  of  her  sarcasm,  the  dissonance  of  her  voice, 
the  malignity  of  that  laugh  tHat  was  like  a  spasm  of 
her  muscles.  But  she  was  unable  to  recover  her 
hold  over  her  soul,  and  she  saw  it  slipping  away  from 
her  will,  irreparably,  like  the  sailors  on  a  ship  from 
whose  grasp  the  handle  has  slipped  and  who  remain 
inert  before  the  crane  that  turns  fearfully  backwards, 
unfolding,  unreeling  chains  and  cables.  She  felt  an 
acrid,  irresistible  need  of  scorning,  scattering,  tread- 
ing under  foot  as  if  invaded  by  some  malignant 
demon.  Every  trace  of  goodness  and  tenderness  had 
disappeared,  and  every  hope  and  every  illusion.  She 
could  discern  in  the  man's  glance  the  same  shadow 
that  passed  over  her  own. 

"  Do  I  annoy  you  ?  Would  you  like  to  return  to 
Venice  alone?  Would  you  like  to  leave  dead  sum- 
mer behind  you  ?    The  tide  is  getting  low,  but  there 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  335 

is  still  enough  water  for  one  who  has  no  intention  ol 
returning  to  the  surface.  Would  you  like  me  to  try? 
Could  I  be  more  docile?" 

She  was  saying  these  insensate  things  with  a  hiss  in 
her  voice ;  she  had  become  almost  livid,  as  if  all  at 
once  consumed  by  some  corroding  poison.  And  he 
remembered  having  seen  that  very  same  mask  on  her 
face  one  distant  day  of  pleasure,  fury,  and  sadness. 
His  heart  contracted  and  then  relaxed. 

"Ah,  if  I  have  hurt  you,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  try- 
ing to  take  one  of  her  hands  so  as  to  quiet  her  with 
an  act  of  gentleness. 

"  But  had  we  not  started  together  towards  this 
point?     Was  it  not  you  .  .  ." 

She  interrupted  him,  impatient  at  the  gentleness 
of  his  usual  balsam. 

"  Hurt  me?  And  what  does  it  matter?  Have  no 
pity,  have  no  pity.  Do  not  weep  over  the  beautiful 
eyes  of  the  wounded  hare.  .  .  ." 

She  was  walking  along  the  footpath  by  the  side 
of- the  purplish  canal,  passing  in  front  of  doorsteps 
where  the  women  still  sat  in*  the  waning  light  with 
their  baskets  full  of  glass  beads  on  their  knees.  The 
words  broke  between  her  teeth.  The  contraction  of 
her  lips  changed  into  a  frenzied  convulsion  of  laughter 
that  sounded  like  a  peal  of  heart-rending  sobs.  Her 
companion  shuddered,  spoke  to  her  under  his  breath 
in  his  dismay,  followed  by  the  curious  gaze  of  those 
who  looked  on. 

"  Be  calm !  Be  calm !  Oh,  Foscarina,  I  beg  of 
you  !  Do  not  behave  like  this,  I  beg  of  you.  Soon 
we  will  have  reached  the  shore.  We  shall  soon  be 
home   again.  ...  I    will   tell   you.  .  .  .  Then    you 


336  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

will  understand.  .  .  .  We  are  in  the  street  now.  .  .  , 
Are  you  listening  to  me?  " 

She  had  discerned  a  woman  enceinte  standing  on 
one  of  the  doorsteps.  She  was  a  big  woman,  and 
filled  up  the  space  between  the  door-posts ;  she  was 
eating  a  piece  of  bread  with  a  far-off,  dreamy  look. 

"Are  you  listening?  Foscarina,  I  beg  of  you. 
Take  courage  ;    lean  on  me." 

He  feared  she  would  fall  in  her  horrible  convulsion, 
and  held  himself  ready  to  support  her.  But  she  only 
quickened  her  pace,  unable  to  answer,  suffocating 
her  peals  of  laughter  with  her  bound-up  hand.  She 
seemed  to  feel  the  skin  of  her  face  cracking  in  her 
spasm. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     What  is  it  you  see  ? 

Never  will  that  man  forget  the  change  in  those  eyes. 
They  stared  sightless  with  a  deadly  stillness,  in  spite 
of  the  implacable  heaving  as  if  their  lids  had  been  cut 
off;  and  yet  they  saw,  they  saw  something  which  was 
not  there ;  they  were  full  of  an  unknown  vision,  occu- 
pied by  a  monstrous  image  that  perhaps  generated 
that  laughter  full  of  anguish  and  madness. 

"  Would  you  like  to  stop?  Would  you  like  a  little 
water?  " 

They  had  come  out  again  on  the  Fondamenta  dei 
Vetrai,  where  the  shops  were  now  shut,  where  their 
steps  re-echoed,  where  the  bursts  of  atrocious  merri- 
ment seemed  to  prolong  themselves  as  if  under  a 
portico.  How  long  was  it  since  they  had  passed 
along  that  dead  canal?  How  much  of  their  Hfe  had 
passed  away  meanwhile?  How  much  shac^DW  had 
they  left  behind  them? 

In  the  gondola,  wrapped  in  her  mantle,  paler  than 


THE   EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  337 

she  had  been  on  the  way  to  the  Dolo,  the  woman 
tried  to  control  her  spasms,  holding  her  jaws  with 
both  hands,  but  from  time  to  time  the  malignant  laugh 
would  escape,  hissing  in  the  sleepy  silence,  breaking 
through  the  rhythm  of  the  two  oars ;  she  would  press 
her  hands  to  her  mouth  more  firmly,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  suffocate  herself.  Between  her  veil  raised 
above  the  eyebrows  and  the  blood-stained  handker- 
chief, her  eyes  remained  open  and  staring  on  the 
immensity  of  the  twilight. 

The  lagoon  and  the  darkness  swallowed  up  all 
forms  and  all  colours ;  only  the  groups  of  posts,  like  a 
procession  of  monks  on  a  pathway  full  of  ashes, 
interrupted  the  grey  monotony.  Venice  in  the  back- 
ground was  smoking  like  the  remains  of  a  vast 
pillage. 

When  the  roll  of  the  bells  reached  them  her  soul 
remembered,  her  tears  fell,  the  horror  was  conquered. 

The  woman  took  her  hands  from  her  face,  bent  a 
little  towards  her  friend's  shoulder,  recovered  her 
voice  to  say.  .  .  . 

"  Forgive  me !  '*  ^ 


She  humbled  herself,  ashamed ;  each  act  of  hers 
from  that  day  silently  begged  for  pardon  and 
oblivion. 

A  new  grace  seemed  born  in  her.  She  became 
lighter,  she  talked  in  a  lower  voice.  She  would  move 
delicately  about  the  room  dressed  in  quiet  stuffs,  veil- 
ing with  the  shadow  of  her  lashes  her  beautiful  eyes, 
that  dared  not  look  on  her  friend.  The  fear  of 
oppressing  him,  of  being  irksome  to  him,  gave  wings 


338  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

to  her  instinct.  Her  ever  waking  sensibility  watched 
and  listened  round  the  inaccessible  door  of  his 
thoughts.  She  reached  the  point  at  certain  hours  of 
feeHng  the  rhythm  of  that  other  life  beating  under 
hfer  own  pulse. 

Her  soul,  intent  on  creating  a  new  feeling  that 
should  be  capable  of  conquering  the  violence  of  in- 
stinct, revealed  in  her  face  with  resplendent  signs  the 
difficulty  of  her  secret  task.  Her  supreme  art  had 
never  before  found  expressions  so  singular;  never 
had  significances  so  obscure  come  to  life  in  the 
shadow  of  her  features.  Looking  at  her  one  day,  her 
friend  spoke  of  the  infinite  power  accumulated  in  the 
shadow  produced  by  the  helmet  on  the  face  of  II 
Pensieroso. 

"  Michael  Angelo,"  he  said,  "  has  concentrated  all 
the  effort  of  human  meditation  in  a  small  hollow  of 
his  marble.  As  the  stream  fills  the  hollowed  palm, 
so  the  eternal  mystery  by  which  we  are  surrounded 
fills  the  small  space  opened  by  the  Titan's  chisel  in 
the  material  that  had  come  from  the  mountain,  and 
it  has  remained  there  and  grown  denser  with  the 
centuries.  I  only  know  the  changing  shadow  of 
your  own  face,  Fosca,  that  sometimes  rivals  it  in 
intensity,  and  even  at  times  surpasses  it." 

She  stretched  herself  out  towards  the  Life-giver, 
yearning  for  poetry  and  knowledge.  She  became  to 
him  the  ideal  figure  of  her  who  listens  and  under- 
stands. The  wild,  powerful  fold  of  her  hair  imitated 
the  impatience  of  wings  round  her  pure  forehead. 
A  beautiful  phrase  would  suddenly  draw  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  as  if  it  had  been  a  drop  which  falls 
into  a  vessel  that  is  full  and  causes  it  to  overflow. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  339 

She  read  out  to  him  pages  from  the  sovereign 
poets.  The  august  shape  of  the  Book  seemed  mag- 
nified by  her  attitude  in  holding  it,  by  her  gesture  in 
turning  the  pages,  by  the  rehgious  gravity  of  her 
attention,  by  the  harmony  of  the  hps  that  changed  the 
printed  signs  into  vocal  numbers.  In  reading  the 
poetry  of  Dante  she  became  as  noble  and  severe  as 
the  sibyls  in  the  dome  of  the  Sixtine  Chapel,  bear- 
ing the  weight  of  the  sacred  volumes  with  all  the 
heroism  of  their  bodies  agitated  by  the  breath  of 
prophecy.  The  lines  of  her  attitude,  down  to  the 
slightest  folds  of  her  garment,  together  with  her 
modulations,  revealed  the  divine  text. 

When  the  last  syllable  had  fallen  she  saw  her 
friend  rise  impetuously,  trembling  with  fever,  wander- 
ing about  the  room,  agitated  by  the  god,  panting  in 
the  anxiety  imparted  to  him  by  the  confused  tumult 
of  his  creative  force.  She  saw  him  coming  towards 
her  with  radiant  eyes  transfigured  by  a  sudden  beati- 
tude, illumined  by  an  inner  flame,  as  if  a  sovereign 
hope  had  all  of  a  sudden  been  kindled  iivhim,  or  an 
immortal  truth  revealed.  With  a  shudder  that  abol- 
ished in  the  blood  the  memory  of  every  caress,  she 
saw  him  come  to  her  and  bend  over  her  knees,  over- 
thrown by  the  terrible  shock  of  the  world  he  was 
carrying  in  himself,  by  the  upheaval  that  accom- 
panied some  hidden  metamorphosis.  She  knew  pain 
and  pleasure  ;  not  knowing  whether  his  were  pleasure 
or  pain,  she  was  filled  with  piety,  fear,  and  reverence 
in  feeling  that  voluptuous  body  labouring  thus  in  the 
genesis  of  the  idea.  She  was  silent,  she  waited,  she 
adored  the  unknown  thoughts  in  the  head  that  rested 
on  her  knees. 


340  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

But  she  understood  his  great  striving  better  when, 
one  day  after  she  had  read  to  him,  he  spoke  to  her 
of  the  Exile. 

"  Imagine,  Fosca,  if  you  can  without  bewilderment, 
the  fire  and  rush  of  the  vast  soul,  in  uniting  itself  to 
the  elementary  energies  in  order  to  conceive  its 
world.  Imagine  an  Alighieri  on  the  road  to  exile, 
already  possessed  by  his  vision,  an  implacable  pil- 
grim driven  from  land  to  land  by  his  passion  and 
his  misery,  from  refuge  to  refuge,  across  fields,  across 
mountains,  along  rivers,  along  seas,  in  every  season, 
suffocated  by  the  sweetness  of  spring,  stricken  by  the 
harshness  of  winter,  ever  alert,  attentive,  his  vora- 
cious eyes  ever  open,  anxious  with  the  inner  travail 
that  was  forming  the  gigantic  work.  Imagine  the 
fulness  of  that  soul  in  the  contrast  between  common 
necessities  and  the  flaming  apparitions  that  suddenly 
came  to  meet  him  at  a  turning  of  the  road,  on  some 
river  bank,  in  a  rocky  cave,  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  in 
the  thick  of  a  forest,  in  a  meadow  bright  with  the 
song  of  the  lark.  Manifold  life  poured  into  his 
spirit  by  means  of  his  senses,  transfiguring  the 
abstract  ideas  that  filled  him  into  living  images. 
Wherever  he  went  unexpected  sources  of  poetry 
flowed  from  his  sorrowful  step.  The  voice,  the 
appearance,  and  the  essence  of  the  elements  entered 
into  his  occult  labour  and  increased  it  with  sounds, 
with  lines,  with  colours,  with  movements,  with  innu- 
merable mysteries.  Fire,  air,  earth,  and  water  worked 
in  collaboration  at  the  sacred  poem,  pervaded  the 
sum  of  its  doctrine,  warmed  it,  modified  and  watered 
it,  covered  it  with  leaves  and  flowers.  .  .  .  Open  this 
Christian   book  and  imagine  the  statue  of  a  Greek 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  341 

god  on  the  other  side.  Do  you  not  see  shadow  or 
light  break  from  the  one  as  from  the  other,  the  flash 
or  the  wind  of  the  sky?  " 

Then  she  began  to  feel  that  her  own  life  was 
drifting  into  the  all-absorbing  work,  that  her  own 
soul  was  entering  drop  by  drop  into  the  person  of  the 
drama,  that  her  aspects,  her  attitudes,  her  gestures, 
and  her  accents  were  contributing  to  the  formation 
of  the  figure  of  the  heroine  "  living  beyond  hfe." 
She  became  the  prey  of  those  voracious  eyes  which 
she  sometimes  found  fixed  upon  her  with  intolerable 
violence.  She  became  acquainted  with  another  man- 
ner of  being  possessed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  dissolving  into  her  elements  in  the  fire  of  that 
intellect,  only  to  be  afterwards  more  perfectly  re- 
composed  according  to  the  necessities  of  a  heroism 
that  was  to  dominate  destiny.  Her  secret  task 
being  in  harmony  with  the  virtue  of  the  life  which 
was  being  created,  she  was  attracted  by  the  desire 
of  producing  no  discord  between  herself  and  the 
image  which  was  to  be  like  her.  Art  seconded  the 
apparition  of  the  new  feeling  she  had  prepared. 

Nevertheless,  she  suffered  from  the  image  that 
threw  its  shadow  on  the  reality  of  renunciation  and 
sorrow.  A  strange  ambiguity  was  born  of  the 
resemblance  between  the  image  and  her  own  being. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  hidden  effort 
was  preparing  her  for  her  success  on  the  stage,  and 
not  for  the  conquest  of  her  conscience  over  the 
darkness  of  instinct.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes 
that  she  was  losing  her  human  sincerity,  and  was 
only  in  the  state  of  fictitious  concentration  in  which 
she  was   wont   to    put  herself  while    studying    the 


342  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

character  of  the  tragic  part  she  was  to  incarnate. 
Thus  she  became  acquainted  with  another  torment. 
She  shut  and  contracted  her  soul  under  his  pene- 
trating glance  as  if  to  prevent  his  piercing  her  and 
robbing  her  of  her  secret  life.  She  grew  to  be  terri- 
fied of  the  Seer.  "  He  will  read  in  my  soul  the 
silent  words  which  he  will  put  on  the  lips  of  his  crea- 
tion, and  I  shall  only  pronounce  them  on  the  stage 
under  the  mask."  She  felt  her  spontaneity  being 
arrested.  She  underwent  strange  bewilderments  and 
discouragements,  whence  she  would  rise  at  times  with 
an  impetuous  need  of  breaking  that  spell,  of  making 
herself  different,  of  separating  herself  from  that  image 
which  was  to  be  like  her,  of  marring  those  lines  of 
beauty  that  imprisoned  her  and  forced  her  to  a  deter- 
mined sacrifice.  —  Was  there  not  also  a  virgin  thirst- 
ing with  love  and  yearning  for  joy  in  the  tragedy,  a 
virgin  in  whom  a  great  spirit  recognised  the  living 
apparition  of  his  lightest  dream,  the  Victory  so  often 
invoked  that  was  to  crown  his  life?  And  was  there 
not  also  a  loving  woman  no  longer  young,  whose  one 
foot  was  already  in  the  shadow,  and  who  had  but  a 
short  step  to  take  in  order  to  disappear?  —  More  than 
once  she  was  tempted  to  contradict  that  resignation 
by  some  violent  act. 

Then  she  would  tremble  at  the  possibility  of  once 
more  falling  into  the  horror,  of  being  once  more 
seized  by  the  horrible  fury,  grasped  by  the  insidi- 
ous beast  that  was  not  killed  yet,  but  was  liv- 
ing and  watching  in  the  dark  for  the  right  moment 
to  spring  upon  her.  Like  a  penitent,  she  increased 
her  fervour  because  of  the  danger,  hardened  her  dis- 
cipline, sharpened  her  vigilance ;  she  repeated  with 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  343 

a  kind  of  intoxication  the  act  of  supreme  abandon- 
ment that  had  risen  from  the  depths  of  her  misery 
before  the  purifying  fire.  .  .  .  "You  must  have  all; 
I  shall  rest  content  with  seeing  you  live,  with  seeing 
your  joy.     And  do  with  me  what  you  will." 

Then  he  loved  her  for  the  unexpected  visions  she 
brought  him,  for  the  mysterious  sense  of  inner  events 
that  she  communicated  to  him  by  her  vicissitudes 
of  expression.  It  astonished  him  to  find  that  the 
lines  of  a  face,  the  movements  of  a  human  body 
could  so  powerfully  touch  and  fertilise  the  intellect. 
He  shuddered  and  turned  pale  one  day  on  seeing 
her  enter  the  room  with  her  silent  step,  her  face 
fixed  in  an  extraordinarily  calm  sorrow,  as  if  she  were 
coming  from  the  depths  of  wisdom  whence  all  human 
agitations  seem  a  play  of  the  wind  in  the  dust  of 
an  endless  road. 

"  Ah,  I  have  created  you,  I  have  created  you  ! "  he 
cried,  deluded  by  the  intensity  of  the  hallucination, 
thinking  he  saw  his  heroine  herself  standing  on 
a  threshold  of  the  distant  room  occupied  by  the 
treasures  taken  from  the  tombs  of  the  Atrides. 
"  Stop  a  moment !  Do  not  move  your  eyelids  1 
Keep  your  eyes  motionless  like  two  stones !  You 
are  blind.  And  you  see  all  that  others  do  not  see. 
And  nothing  can  be  hidden  from  you.  And  here  in 
this  room  the  man  you  love  has  revealed  his  love  to 
another,  who  is  still  trembling  at  the  revelation.  And 
they  are  still  here,  and  their  hands  have  not  long  been 
parted,  and  their  love  is  in  the  air.  And  the  room  is 
full  of  funeral  treasures,  and  on  two  tables  are  dis- 
posed the  riches  that  covered  the  bodies  of  Agamem- 
non and   Cassandra.     There   are   the   chests  full  of 


344  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

necklaces,  and  here  are  the  vases  full  of  ashes,  and 
the  balcony  is  open  looking  out  to  the  plain  of  Argos 
and  the  distant  mountains.  And  it  is  sunset,  and  all 
this  terrible  gold  gleams  in  the  shadow.  Do  you 
understand?  You  are  there  on  the  threshold,  led  by 
the  Nurse.  You  are  blind,  and  nothing  is  unknown 
to  you.     Stop  a  moment !  " 

He  was  speaking  in  the  sudden  fever  of  invention. 
The  scene  appeared  and  disappeared  before  him, 
submerged  in  a  torrent  of  poetry. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?     What  will  you  say  ?  " 

The  actress  felt  a  chill  in  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
Her  soul  vibrated  with  sonorous  strength  to  the 
limits  of  her  body.  She  became  blind  and  pro- 
phetic. The  cloud  of  tragedy  descended  and  stopped 
above  her  head. 

"What  will  you  say?  You  will  call  them.  You 
will  call  one  and  the  other  by  name  in  the  silence  full 
of  great  royal  spoils." 

The  actress  could  hear  the  throb  of  her  blood,  her 
voice  was  to  resound  in  the  silence  of  thousands  of 
years  from  the  distances  of  time.  It  was  to  reawaken 
the  ancient  sorrow  of  men  and  heroes. 

"  You  will  take  their  hands  and  you  will  feel  their 
two  lives  stretching  towards  each  other  with  all  their 
strength  and  gaze  fixedly  at  each  other  across  your 
motionless  sorrow,  as  if  it  were  a  crystal  about  to 
break." 

The  blindness  of  immortal  statues  was  in  her  eyes. 
She  saw  herself  sculptured  in  the  great  silence,  and 
felt  the  quiver  of  the  dumb  crowd,  seized  at  the  heart 
by  the  sublime  power  of  the  attitude. 

"And  then,  and  then?" 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  345 

The  Life-giver  rushed  towards  her  as  if  he  would 
<  ave  struck  her  to  draw  sparks  from  her. 

"  You  must  call  Cassandra  from  her  sleep,  you 
must  feel  her  ashes  live  once  more  in  your  hands, 
she  must  be  present  in  your  vision.  Will  you  do  it? 
Do  you  understand?  Your  hving  soul  must  touch 
the  ancient  soul  and  mingle  with  it  into  one  only 
soul  and  one  only  misfortune,  so  that  the  error  of 
time  seems  destroyed  and  that  unity  of  life  to  which 
I  tend  by  the  effort  of  my  art  be  made  manifest. 
Cassandra  is  in  you  and  you  are  in  her.  Have  you 
not  loved  her?  Do  you  not  also  love  the  daughter 
of  Priam  ?  Who  that  has  once  heard  it  will  ever  for- 
get, who  will  ever  forget  the  sound  of  your  voice  and 
the  convulsion  of  your  lips  at  the  first  cry  of  the 
prophetic  fury.  .  .  .  '  O  Earth !  O  Apollo ! '  I  can 
see  you  again,  deaf  and  dumb  on  your  car,  with 
that  aspect  on  your  face  of  a  wild  beast  newly  cap- 
tured. Ah,  but  among  so  many  terrible  cries  there 
were  some  infinitely  soft,  sad  tones.  The  old  men 
compared  you  to  *  the  tawny  nightingale.'  How  are 
they?  How  are  they?  —  the  words  when  you  re- 
member your  beautiful  river?  And  when  the  old 
men  question  you  concerning  the  love  of  the  god,  do 
you  not  remember  them?  " 

The  tragic  actress  throbbed  as  if  the  breath  of  the 
god  were  again  invading  her.  She  had  become  an 
ardent  ductile  matter  subject  to  all  the  animations  of 
the  poet. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  them?" 

"  O  espousals,  espousals  of  Paris  fatal  to  the  dear 
ones !  O  you,  paternal  waters  of  Scamandros,  then 
on  your  shores  my  youth  fed  upon  you  !  " 


346  THE   FLAME    OF   LIFE 

"Ah,  divine  one!  Your  melody  does  not  let  one 
forget  the  syllables  of  ^schylus.  I  remember.  The 
soul  of  the  crowd,  gripped  by  the  *  lamentation  of 
discordant  sounds,'  unbent  and  was  blessed  by  that 
melodious  sigh,  and  each  of  us  received  the  vision  of 
her  distant  years  and  her  innocent  bliss.  You  can 
say,  *  I  have  been  Cassandra.'  In  speaking  of  her 
you  will  remember  an  anterior  life.  .  .  .  Her  mask  of 
gold  shall  be  in  your  hands.  .  .  ." 

He  seized  her  hands,  unconsciously  torturing  them. 
She  felt  no  pain.  Both  were  intent  on  the  sparks 
generated  by  their  mingled  forces ;  one  same  electric 
vibration  ran  along  their  nerves. 

"  You  are  there,  close  to  the  spoil  of  the  enslaved 
princess,  and  you  are  feeling  her  mask.  .  .  .  What 
will  you  say?  " 

They  seemed  in  the  pause  to  be  waiting  for  the 
flash  to  illumine  them.  The  eyes  of  the  actress 
became  once  more  motionless;  their  blindness  filled 
them  once  more.  Her  whole  face  became  as  marble. 
Instinctively  the  Life-giver  left  her  hands  free,  and 
they  sketched  the  gesture  of  feeling  for  the  sepulchral 
gold.  In  a  voice  that  created  the  tangible  form  she 
said :  — 

"  How  large  her  mouth  is  !" 

He  throbbed  with  almost  fearful  suspense. 

"You  see  her,  then?" 

She  remained  silent  with  her  intent,  sightless 
eyes. 

"  I  too  can  see  her.  It  is  large,  the  horrible  effort 
of  divination  had  dilated  it ;  she  cried  out,  cursed,  and 
lamented  ceaselessly.  Can  you  imagine  her  mouth  in 
silence?" 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  347 

Slowly,  still  in  the  same  attitude,  almost  in  ecstasy, 
she  said :  — 

"  How  wonderful  is  her  silence !" 

She  seemed  to  be  repeating  words  suggested  to 
her  by  some  mysterious  genii ;  while  it  seemed  to  the 
poet  as  he  heard  them  that  he  himself  had  been 
about  to  utter  them.  A  deep  tremor  shook  him  as 
if  he  had  been  assisting  at  a  miracle, 

"And  her  eyes?"  he  asked,  trembhng.  "What 
colour  do  you  think  her  eyes  were?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

The  marble  lines  of  her  face  changed  as  if  a  slight 
wave  of  suffering  had  passed  there.  A  furrow  carved 
itself  between  her  eyebrows. 

"  Black,  perhaps,"  he  added  softly. 

She  spoke. 

"  They  were  not  black,  but  they  seemed  so  because 
in  the  prophetic  ardour  the  pupils  were  so  dilated 
that  they  swallowed  up  the  iris.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  as  if  her  breath  were  about  to  fail  her. 
A  thin  veil  of  moisture  was  spreading  over  her  fore- 
head. SteUo  gazed  at  her,  silent  and  very  pale ;  and 
the  interval  was  filled  by  the  deep  throbs  of  his 
heart. 

"  In  the  pauses,"  continued  the  revealer,  with  pain- 
ful slowness,  when  she  had  wiped  the  foam  from  her 
livid  lips,  "  her  eyes  were  sweet  and  sad  as  two 
violets." 

She  stopped  again,  breathless,  with  the  appearance 
of  one  who  dreams  and  suffers  in  the  dream.  Her 
mouth  seemed  parched,  her  temples  were  wet. 

"  Thus  they  must  have  been  before  they  were  closed 
for  ever." 


348  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

Henceforth  he  was  entirely  carried  away  by  the 
lyric  whirlwind ;  he  breathed  only  in  the  inflamed 
ether  of  his  poetry.  The  musical  sentiment  that 
had  generated  the  drama  determined  itself  in  the 
forms  of  the  Prelude  he  was  composing.  On  the 
sonorous  fulcrum  the  tragedy  found  its  perfect  bal- 
ance between  the  two  forces  that  were  to  animate  it, 
the  power  of  the  stage  and  the  power  of  the  orchestra. 
A  motive  of  extraordinary  vigour  marked  in  the  sym- 
phonic ocean  the  apparition  of  the  ancient  Fate. 

"  You  will  perform  the  Agamemyion  in  the  new 
theatre,  the  Antigone,  and  lastly  the  Victory  of  Man. 
My  tragedy  is  a  battle :  it  celebrates  the  renovation 
of  the  Drama,  with  the  discomfiture  of  the  monstrous 
will  that  dragged  down  the  races  of  Labdacus  and 
Atreus.  It  opens  with  the  moan  of  an  ancient  victim, 
and  closes  with  a  cry  of  light." 

Revived  by  the  melody,  the  Moyra  lived  before 
him  again  in  visible  shape  such  as  she  appeared  be- 
fore the  wild  eyes  of  the  Coefore,  by  the  mound  of 
the  slaughtered  king. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  said  to  the  actress,  in 
order  to  signify  that  violent  presence,  "  do  you  re- 
member the  decapitation  of  Marcus  Crassus  in  Plu- 
tarch's narration  ?  One  day  I  proposed  drawing  from 
it  an  episode  for  the  stage.  Under  the  royal  tent 
the  Armenian,  Artavasdes,  is  entertaining  Orodes,  the 
king  of  the  Parthians,  at  a  great  banquet,  and  the  cap- 
tains sit  drinking  round  the  table ;  and  the  spirit  of 
Dionysius  invades  those  barbarians,  who  are  not  in- 
sensible to  the  power  of  rhythm,  because  a  performer 
of  tragedies,  called  Jason  Trallianus,  is  singing  the 
adventures  of  Agave  in  the  Bacchantes  of  Euripides. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  349 

They  have  not  yet  risen  from  the  table  when  Sillaces 
enters,  bearing  the  head  of  Crassus,  and  having 
saluted  the  king,  throws  it  bleeding  in  their  midst. 
A  great  cry  of  joy  arises  from  the  Parthians.  Then 
Jason  gives  the  garments  of  Pentheus  to  one  of  the 
chorus,  while  he,  seizing  the  head  of  Crassus,  and 
full  of  the  Dionysian  fury,  sings  these  verses :  — 

"  '  Portiamo  dai  monti 

alle  case  un'  edera  tagliata  di  recente 
insigne  preda.  .  .  .'  ^ 

"  And  the  chorus  leaps  with  joy,  and  as  Agave  tells 
them  how  she  had  caught  that  lion  cub  without  a 
net,  the  chorus  asks,  Who  had  wounded  him  first, 
and  Agave  answers, — 

"  '  Mio  h  il  vanto.  .  .  .'  « 

"  But  Pomaxcethres,  who  had  been  still  supping, 
starts  to  his  feet  and  tears  the  head  from  the  hands  of 
the  furious  actor,  crying  out  that  it  is  he,  rather  than 
Jason,  who  should  say  those  words,  because  he  is  the 
slayer  of  the  Roman.  Do  you  feel  the  portentous 
beauty  of  the  scene?  —  the  fierce  face  of  life  suddenly 
flashes  by  the  side  of  the  waxen  mask  of  metal,  the 
odour  of  human  blood  excites  the  rhythmic  fury  of 
the  chorus,  a  death-bringing  arm  tears  asunder  the 
veils  of  the  tragic  fiction.  This  unusual,  astonishing 
epilogue  closing  the  expedition  of  Crassus  fills  me 
with  enthusiasm.  Well,  the  eruption  of  the  ancient 
Moyra  in  my  modern  tragedy  is  like  the  sudden  ar- 
rival of  Sillaces  at  the  banquet  of  the  Armenian.     At 

1  "  Let  us  take  home  from  the  hills  the 

newly  cut  ivy  as  an  illustrious 

spoil.  .  .  ." 
»  "  Mine  is  the  boast.  .  .  .** 


350  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

the  beginning,  on  the  loggia  that  guards  the  Cyclopic 
walls  and  the  gate  of  the  lions,  the  virgin  has  in  her 
hands  the  book  of  the  Tragedians,  and  is  reading  the 
lamentation  of  Antigone.  The  fatal  divinity  is  en- 
closed in  the  book,  dominating  the  images  of  pain  and 
crime.  But  those  images  are  called  up  by  the  living 
words ;  and  close  to  the  pure  peplum  of  the  Theban 
martyr  glows  the  insidious  crimson  stretched  out  by 
Clytemnestra,  and  the  Heroes  of  the  Orestidae  seem 
to  recommence  a  new  life  while  a  man  explores  their 
tombs  in  the  Agora.  They  seem  to  move  at  the 
back  of  the  stage  like  shadows,  impelled  by  obscure 
agitation;  they  seem  to  bend  down  listening  to  the 
dialogues,  to  poison  the  air  with  their  breath.  Sud- 
denly a  cry  is  heard  announcing  the  great  event. 
Here  comes  the  man  who  has  uncovered  the  tombs 
and  has  seen  the  face  of  the  Atridse.  Here  he  comes 
irradiated  by  the  wonders  of  death  and  of  that  gold. 
He  stands  there,  like  one  delirious.  Their  souls  are 
trembling.  Is  the  fable  rising  from  the  soil  to  delude 
men  once  more?  Their  souls  are  anxious  and  trem- 
bling. Suddenly  the  power  of  the  curse  and  ruin 
rushes  upon  them  and  seizes  them  to  drag  them 
towards  infamous  crimes ;  the  desperate  struggle 
begins.  The  tragedy  no  longer  wears  its  motionless 
mask,  but  shows  its  naked  face ;  and  the  book  that 
the  unconscious  virgin  was  reading  can  no  longer  be 
re-opened  without  a  shudder,  because  their  souls  have 
felt  that  that  distant  horror  has  become  living  and 
present,  and  that  they  are  breathing  and  raving  in 
it,  as  in  an  inevitable  reality.  The  Past  is  in  action. 
The  illusion  of  Time  has  fallen.  Life  is  one." 
The  very  greatness  of  his    conception  filled  him 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  351 

with  dismay.  At  times  he  would  look  anxiously 
about  him,  examine  the  horizon,  question  dumb 
things  as  if  he  were  calling  for  help  or  hoping  for  a 
message.  He  would  lie  in  silence  for  a  long  time,  his 
eyes  shut,  waiting. 

"  I  must  raise  this  enormous  mass  at  one  stroke 
before  the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  In  this,  you  see, 
lies  the  difficulty  of  my  prelude.  This  first  effort  is 
the  greatest  that  my  work  will  demand  of  me.  At 
the  same  time  I  must  call  my  world  forth  from 
nothing  and  place  the  manifold  soul  in  the  musical 
state  most  apt  to  receive  the  unusual  revelation. 
The  orchestra  must  produce  this  miracle.  'Art,  like 
magic,  is  practical  metaphysics,'  Daniele  Glauro 
says.     And  he  is  right." 

He  would  sometimes  come  to  the  house  of  his 
friend  panting  and  agitated  as  if  pursued  by  Erinnys. 
She  never  asked  him  questions,  but  her  whole  person 
would  soothe  the  unquiet  one. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  said  one  day,  smiling,  —  "  afraid 
of  being  suffocated.  .  .  .  You  beHeve  I  am  a  little 
mad,  do  you  not?  Do  you  remember  that  stormy 
evening  when  I  returned  from  the  Lido  ?  How  sweet 
you  were,  Fosca !  Not  long  before  on  the  Bridge  of 
Rialto  I  had  found  a  Motive.  I  had  translated  the 
words  of  the  element  into  notes.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
what  a  Motive  is?  It  is  a  small  spring  that  may  give 
birth  to  a  flock  of  streams,  a  small  seed  that  may  give 
birth  to  a  wreath  of  forests,  a  small  spark  that  may 
give  birth  to  an  endless  chain  of  conflagrations:  a 
nucleus  producing  infinite  strength.  There  is  no 
more  powerful  thing  in  the  world  of  ideal  origins,  nor 
more  virtuous  organ  of  generation ;  and  there  is  no 


352  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

greater  joy  for  an  active  mind  than  that  which  may 
be  given  him  by  the  developments  of  that  energy.  .  .  . 
Joy,  yes,  but  also  terror  sometimes,  my  friend." 

He  laughed  his  ingenuous  laugh.  The  manner  in 
which  he  spoke  of  these  things  was  a  symptom  of  the 
extraordinary  faculty  which  likened  his  spirit  to  that 
of  the  primitive  transfigurations  of  nature.  There 
was  a  deep  analogy  between  the  spontaneous  forma- 
tion of  myths  and  his  instinctive  necessity  of  animat- 
ing all  that  fell  under  his  senses. 

"  A  little  while  ago  I  had  begun  developing  the 
Motive  of  that  stormy  evening,  which  I  shall  call  the 
Wind-bags  of  ^olus.     Here  it  is.     It  is  this." 

He  went  to  the  keyboard  and  struck  a  few  notes 
with  one  hand, 

"  No  more  than  this,  but  you  cannot  imagine  the 
generating  force  of  these  few  notes.  A  storm  of 
music  has  arisen  from  them,  and  I  have  not  been  able 
to  master  it.  ...  I  have  been  overcome,  suffocated, 
forced  to  fly." 

He  laughed  again,  but  his  soul  was  swaying  like 
the  sea. 

"  The  Wind-bags  of  Prince  yEolus,  opened  by  the 
companions  of  Ulysses.  Do  you  remember  it?  The 
imprisoned  winds  break  forth  and  push  the  ship  back. 
Man  trembled  with  fear." 

But  his  soul  could  find  no  rest,  and  nothing  could 
free  it  of  its  agitated  workings.  And  he  kissed  the 
hands  of  his  friend,  and  walked  away  from  her  and 
wandered  about  the  room,  stopping  before  the  in- 
strument that  Donatella  had  touched  in  singing 
Claudio's  melody;  restlessly  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow, saw  the  leafless  garden,  the  beautiful  solitary 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  353 

clouds,  the  sacred  towers.  His  aspiration  went  out 
to  the  musical  creature  who  was  to  sing  his  hymns 
at  the  summit  of  the  tragic  symphonies. 
In  a  low  limpid  voice  the  woman  said :  — 
"  If  only  Donatella  were  here  with  us  !  " 
He  turned,  took  a  few  steps  towards  her,  and  looked 
at  her  fixedly,  silently.  She  smiled  her  slight  con- 
cealing smile  on  seeing  him  so  near  to  her  and  yet 
so  far  away.  She  felt  that  he  loved  no  one  at  that 
moment:  not  her  and  not  Donatella;  but  that  he 
considered  them  both  as  pure  instruments  of  his  art, 
as  forces  to  be  used,  "  bows  to  be  drawn."  He  was 
burning  in  his  own  poetry,  and  she  was  there  with  her 
poor  wounded  heart,  with  her  secret  torture  and  her 
silent  prayer,  intent  on  nothing  but  the  preparation 
of  her  sacrifice,  ready  to  pass  away  beyond  love  and 
life  as  the  heroine  of  the  future  drama. 

"Ah,  what  is  it  that  could  draw  you  near  me,  that 
could  throw  you  on  my  faithful  heart,  quivering  with 
another  anguish?"  she  thought,  seeing  him  estranged 
and  lost  in  his  dream.  "  A  great  sorrow  perhaps,  a 
sudden  blow,  a  cruel  disappointment,  an  irreparable 
evil." 

There  returned  to  her  memory  the  verse  of  Gaspara 
Stama  which  he  had  praised :  — 

"  Vivere  ardendo  e  non  sentire  il  male  !  " 

And  she  remembered  his  sudden  pallor  when  she 
had  stopped  in  the  path  between  the  two  walls,  and 
had  declared  her  first  titles  of  nobility  in  the  struggle 
to  live. 

"  Ah,  if  only  one  day  you  could  be  brought  to  feel 
the  value  of  a  devotion  such  as  mine,  of  a  servitude 


354  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

such  as  the  one  I  offer  you,  if  you  were  truly  to  need 
me  one  day,  and,  discouraged,  you  should  draw  a  new 
faith  from  me,  and  weary,  you  should  draw  your 
strength  from  me  !  " 

She  was  reduced  to  invoking  sorrow  to  strengthen 
her  hope  and  while  saying  to  herself  "  if  only  one 
day !  "  .  .  .  the  sense  occupied  her,  the  sense  of  time 
that  flies,  the  sense  of  the  flame  that  is  consuming 
itself,  of  the  body  that  is  fading,  of  the  infinite  things 
that  wear  out  and  perish.  Henceforth  each  day  must 
dig  its  mark  in  her  face,  discolour  her  lips,  destroy 
her  hair;  henceforth  each  day  was  in  the  service  of 
old  age,  would  hasten  the  work  of  destruction  in  her 
miserable  flesh.     "  What  then?  " 

Once  more  she  recognised  that  it  was  desire,  un- 
conquerable desire,  that  forged  all  the  illusions  and 
all  the  hopes  which  seemed  to  help  her  in  accom- 
plishing "  what  even  love  cannot  do." 

She  recognised  that  every  effort  to  root  it  out 
would  be  vain,  and,  discouraged,  she  saw  the  artifice 
into  which  her  soul  had  been  forced  by  her  will  drop 
away  in  an  instant.  With  secret  shame  she  felt  how 
miserably  she  resembled  at  that  moment  the  actress 
who  lays  aside  her  mask  on  coming  away  from  the 
stage.  In  pronouncing  those  words  that  had  inter- 
rupted the  silence  and  expressed  an  unreal  regret 
with  the  accents  of  sincerity,  had  she  not  been  like 
one  reciting  a  part?  But  she  had  suffered,  but  she 
had  wrung  her  heart,  but  she  had  extracted  that 
sweetness  from  the  bitterness  of  her  blood.  What 
then? 

She  recognised  that  the  torturing  constraint  of 
those  days  had  not  succeeded  in  creating  in  her  even 


THE   EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  355 

a  symptom  of  the  new  feeling  by  which  love  was  to  be 
made  sublime.  She  was  like  those  gardeners  who 
with  their  shears  have  given  an  artificial  shape  to 
tenacious  plants  which  still  preserve  their  powerful 
trunk  and  all  their  roots  intact,  and  outrun  the  de- 
sign with  rapid  expansion,  if  the  work  of  the  shears 
round  their  branches  be  not  assiduous.  Her  effort 
was  therefore  as  useless  as  it  was  painful,  since  it  only 
had  an  outward  efficacy,  leaving  her  depths  un- 
changed ;  on  the  contrary  even  increasing  there  the 
intensity  of  her  evil  by  compressing  it  Her  secret 
task,  therefore,  was  reduced  to  a  constant  dissimula- 
tion.    Was  it  worth  while  living  for  this  ? 

She  could  not  and  would  not  go  on  living  except 
on  condition  of  at  last  finding  her  harmony.  But  the 
experience  of  those  days  had  done  nothing  beyond 
making  the  discord  greater  between  her  goodness 
and  her  desire,  had  only  succeeded  in  sharpening 
her  restlessness  and  her  sadness,  or  in  losing  itself 
entirely  in  the  whirl  of  the  creative  soul  that  was  at- 
tracting her  to  mould  her  like  a  plastic  substance. 
She  was  indeed  so  far  removed  from  the  harmony 
she  sought  that  she  had  at  one  moment  felt  her 
spontaneity  ceasing  and  her  sincerity  clouding  itself; 
a  dull  ferment  of  rebellion  swelling  her  heart  and  a 
threatened  return  of  the  feared  madness. 

Was  it  not  the  same  woman  sitting  in  shadow 
among  the  cushions  of  the  divan  who  had  said  to 
her  friend  one  evening  in  October  burnt  up  by  the 
poison,  "  It  is  necessary ;  I  must  die"?  Was  it  not 
the  same  woman,  —  was  it  not  the  same  woman  who 
had  risen  thence  when  he  had  prodded  her  and  had 
sprung  upon  him  as  if  to  devour  him? 


356  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

If  the  young  man's  turbid  desire  had  then  caused 
her  to  suffer  cruelly,  she  now  suffered  still  more 
cruelly  in  observing  that  his  ardour  had  quieted  itself 
and  that  a  kind  of  reserve  had  taken  its  place  in  her 
friend,  —  a  kind  of  reserve  that  was  sometimes  im- 
patient of  the  gentlest  caress.  She  was  ashamed  of 
her  regret,  seeing  that  he  was  possessed  by  his  idea 
and  intent  on  concentrating  all  his  energies  on  his  men- 
tal effort  alone.  But  a  dark  rancour  would  master 
her  of  an  evening  when  he  took  his  leave  of  her,  and 
blind  suspicions  at  night  tormented  her  sleepless  soul. 

She  yielded  to  the  nightly  evil.  Throbbing  and 
feverish  in  the  darkness  of  a  gondola  cabin,  she 
wandered  along  the  canal,  hesitated  before  giving 
the  oarsman  the  name  of  a  distant  Rio,  tried  to  turn 
back,  sobbed,  suffocated  over  her  wound,  felt  her 
pain  becoming  intolerable,  inclined  herself  towards  the 
lethal  fascination  of  the  water,  conversed  with  death, 
then  gave  herself  up  to  her  misery.  She  watched 
the  house  of  her  friend.  She  remained  there  during 
long  hours  in  fearful  and  useless  expectation. 

They  were  her  worst  agonies  those  which  she  en- 
dured in  that  melancholy  Rio  della  Panada  that  ends 
in  a  bridge  under  which  the  mortuary  island  of  San 
Michele  was  visible  in  the  open  lagoon.  The  old 
Gothic  palace  at  the  corner  of  San  Canciano  was 
like  a  suspended  ruin  that  must  all  at  once  crash 
down  upon  her  and  bury  her.  The  black  peate  went 
to  pieces  along  the  corroded  walls,  uncovered  by  the 
low  tide,  exhaling  the  odour  of  dissolution ;  and  once 
she  heard  the  little  birds  awakening  at  dawn  in  the 
garden  of  the  Poor  Clares. 

"  To  go  away !  "     The  necessity  of  the  act  came 


THE   EMPIRE   OF  SILENCE  357 

upcn  her,  suddenly  urgent.  She  had  already  told  her 
friend  on  one  memorable  day :  "  Now  it  seems  to  me 
that  there  is  only  one  thing  I  can  do :  go  away,  dis- 
appear, and  leave  you  free  with  your  fate.  This 
thing  I  can  do  which  even  love  could  not  do." 
Henceforth  delay  was  no  longer  possible ;  she  must 
break  through  every  hesitation ;  she  must  emerge  at 
last  from  that  kind  of  fatal  immobility  of  events,  in 
which  she  had  been  agitated  for  so  long  between  life 
and  death,  as  if  she  had  fallen  into  the  dumb  troubled 
water,  close  to  the  sepulchral  island,  and  were  strug- 
gling there  in  anguish,  feeling  the  soft  sand  give  way 
beneath  her  feet,  ever  believing  herself  to  be  swal- 
lowed up,  ever  having  before  her  eyes  the  level 
stretch  of  that  great  calm,  and  never  drowning.  .  .  . 
Nothing  indeed  had  happened,  nothing  was  hap- 
pening. Since  that  October  dawn  their  outward  life 
had  continued  unchanged.  No  word  had  been  pro- 
nounced that  might  have  established  an  end,  that 
could  point  to  an  interruption.  It  almost  seemed  as 
if  the  sweet  promise  of  the  visit  to  the  Euganean  hills 
were  about  to  be  kept,  as  the  time  for  the  blossoming 
of  the  peach-trees  drew  nearer.  Nevertheless,  she 
felt  at  that  moment  the  absolute  impossibility  of  going 
on  living  as  she  was  then  living  by  the  side  of  her 
beloved.  It  was  a  definite  and  unquestionable  feeling, 
like  the  sensation  of  one  who  finds  himself  in  a  burn- 
ing house,  of  one  who  is  stopped  on  a  mountain-side 
by  a  chasm,  or  of  one  who  in  the  desert  has  drunk  of 
the  last  drop  from  his  gourd.  There  was  in  her 
something  that  was  fully  accomplished  as  in  the  tree 
that  has  given  forth  all  its  fruit,  as  in  the  field  where 
the  harvest  has  been  reaped,  as  in  the  current  that  has 


358  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

reached  the  sea.  Her  inner  necessity  was  as  the 
necessity  of  natural  facts,  of  tides,  seasons,  and  celes- 
tial vicissitudes ;  she  accepted  it  without  examination. 

And  her  courage  revived,  her  soul  grew  stronger, 
her  activity  reawakened,  the  virile  qualities  of  the 
leader  rose  up  in  her  once  more.  In  a  very  short 
time  she  settled  her  tour,  reassembled  her  people, 
fixed  the  date  of  her  departure.  "  You  must  go  and 
work  down  there  among  the  barbarians  beyond  the 
ocean,"  she  told  herself  harshly.  "  You  must  still  go 
on  wandering  from  town  to  town,  from  hotel  to  hotel, 
from  theatre  to  theatre,  and  every  night  you  will  raise 
a  howl  in  the  crowd  that  pays  you ;  you  will  earn 
much  money,  you  will  come  back  laden  with  gold 
and  with  wisdom  unless  it  so  happens  that  you  remain 
crushed  by  chance  under  a  wheel  at  a  crossing  of  the 
roads  some  foggy  day. 

"  Who  knows  !  "  she  added.  "  From  whom  have 
you  received  the  order  to  go  away?  From  some  one 
who  is  within  you,  deep,  deep  within  you,  and  who 
sees  that  which  you  cannot  see,  like  the  blind  woman 
in  the  tragedy.  Who  knows  whether  down  there  on 
one  of  those  great  peaceful  rivers  your  soul  will  not 
find  its  harmony,  and  your  lips  will  not  learn  that 
smile  which  they  have  so  often  attempted  in  vain ! 
Perhaps  you  will  discover  a  few  white  hairs  and  that 
smile  in  your  mirror  at  the  same  time.    Go  in  peace." 

And  she  began  preparing  her  viaticum  for  her 
journey. 


From  time  to  time  the  breath  of  the  premature 
season  seemed  to  be  passing  in  the  February  sky. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  359 

"Don't  you  feel  the  spring?"  said  Stelio  to  his 
friend,   and   his  nostrils  quivered. 

She  threw  herself  back  a  little,  feeling  that  her 
heart  was  melting,  and  offered  her  face  to  the  sky, 
which  was  full  of  scattered  vapours  like  slight  feathers. 
The  hoot  of  a  siren  prolonged  itself  in  the  pale  estu- 
ary, becoming  little  by  little  as  sweet  as  a  flute-note. 
It  seemed  to  the  woman  that  something  had  escaped 
from  her  inmost  heart  and  faded  away  in  the  distance 
with  that  sound  like  a  pain  that  little  by  little  is 
changing  into  a  memory. 

She  replied : 

"  It  has  arrived  at  the  Tre  Porti." 

Once  more  they  wandered  at  random  along  the 
lagoon  on  the  water  which  was  as  familiar  to  their 
dream  as  the  web  to  the  weaver. 

"  Did  you  say  '  to  the  Tre  Porti '  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  quickly,  as  if  some  spirit  were  awaking  in 
him.  "  Precisely  there  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
low  beach,  when  the  moon  goes  down,  the  sailors  take 
the  wind  prisoner  and  bring  it  in  chains  to  Dardi 
Seguso.  One  day  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the 
Archorgan." 

She  smiled  at  the  mysterious  way  in  which  he  had 
alluded  to  the  mariners'  act. 

"  Which  story?  "  she  said,  yielding  to  the  enchant- 
ment; "  and  how  does  Seguso  come  into  it?  Is  it  the 
master  glazier?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  an  ancient  one,  who  knew  Greek  and 
Latin,  music  and  architecture ;  who  was  admitted  to 
the  Academy  of  the  Pellegrini ;  who  had  his  gardens 
in  Murano,  and  was  often  invited  to  supper  by 
Vecellio  in  his  house  on  the  Contrada  del  Biri ;  who 


36o  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

was  the  friend  of  Bernado  Capello,  of  Jacopo  Zane 
and  other  Petrarchian  patricians.  It  was  in  the  house 
of  Caterino  Zeno  that  he  saw  the  famous  organ 
built  for  Matthias  Corvinus  King  of  the  Hunga- 
rians, and  it  was  there  that  his  fine  idea  came  to 
him,  in  the  course  of  a  dispute  with  that  Agostino 
Amadi  who  had  succeeded  in  picking  up  for  his 
collection  of  instruments  a  real  Greek  lyre,  a  great 
Lesbian  heptachord  adorned  with  gold  and  ivory.  .  .  . 
Ah,  do  you  imagine  that  relic  of  the  school  of  Mity- 
lene  brought  to  Venice  by  a  galley  that  in  passing 
through  the  waters  of  Santa  Maura,  caught  and 
dragged  the  dead  body  of  Sappho  as  far  as  Mala- 
mocco  like  a  bundle  of  dead  grass?  But  this  is 
another  story," 

Once  more  the  wandering  woman  seemed  to 
recover  her  youth,  and  to  smile  with  the  surprise  of  a 
child  who  is  being  shown  a  picture-book.  What 
marvellous  stories,  what  delightful  inventions,  had  not 
the  Image-maker  found  for  her  on  the  water  in  the 
slowness  of  that  hour !  How  many  enchantments  he 
had  composed  for  her  to  the  rhythm  of  the  oar  with 
those  words  of  his  that  made  everything  visible ! 
How  many  times,  sitting  by  his  side  in  the  light  boat, 
she  had  tasted  of  that  kind  of  lucid  slumber  in  which 
all  agitations  were  interrupted,  and  only  the  visions 
of  poetry  were  allowed  to  live  on  ! 

"  Tell  it  me,"  she  begged ;  and  she  would  have 
added,  "  It  will  be  the  last,"  but  refrained  because 
she  had  as  yet  concealed  her  resolution  from  her 
friend. 

He  laughed. 

"  Ah,  you  are  as  greedy  for  stories  as  Sophia." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  361 

At  that  name,  as  at  the  name  of  spring,  she  felt  her 
whole  heart  melting  and  the  cruelty  of  her  lot  passing 
through  her  soul,  and  her  whole  being  turning  to  the 
things  she  had  lost. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  silent  level  of  the 
lagoon,  creased  here  and  there  by  the  passage  of  a 
breeze.  "  Do  not  those  infinite  lines  of  silence  aspire 
to  become  music?" 

The  islands  stood  lightly  on  the  afternoon  illusion 
of  the  estuary  as  the  lightest  clouds  hung  from  the 
sky.  The  long  thin  streaks  of  land  seemed  as  vain 
as  the  black  gatherings  of  refuse  that  sometimes 
float  in  zones  on  the  calm  waves.  In  the  distance 
Torcello,  Burano,  Mazzorbo,  San  Francesco  del  De- 
serto  did  not  seem  like  real  landing-places,  but  more 
like  submerged  regions,  the  summits  of  which  pierced 
the  level  of  the  water  like  the  protruding  parts  of 
vessels  that  have  gone  to  the  bottom.  The  traces  of 
man  were  faint  indeed  in  that  level  solitude,  like 
letters  corroded  by  time  in  ancient  inscriptions. 

"  Well,  then,  the  master  glazier,  hearing  the  famous 
organ  of  Matthias  Corvinus  praised  in  the  house  of 
Zeno,  cried :  '  Corpo  di  Baco  !  They  shall  see  what 
organ  I  can  make  with  my  tube,  my  liquid  Muse 
of  song.  I  will  make  the  god  of  organs.  Dant 
sonitum  glauccs  per  stagna  loqnacia  Cannes.  .  .  . 
The  water  of  the  lagoon  shall  give  forth  its  sound 
and  the  posts  and  the  stones  shall  sing  too.  Mu/- 
tisonum  silentium.  .  .  .  They  shall  see !  Corpo  di 
Diana ! '  All  who  were  present  laughed,  except 
Giulia  da  Ponte,  who  did  not  laugh  because  her  teeth 
were  dark.  And  Sansovino  straightway  began  a 
dissertation  on  hydraulic  organs.     But  the   boaster 


362  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

before  taking  his  leave  invited  the  company  to  hear 
his  new  music  on  the  day  of  the  Sensa  and  promised 
that  the  Doge  and  his  Bucintoro  would  stop  to  listen 
in  the  middle  of  the  lagoon.  That  night  a  rumour 
spread  through  Venice  that  Dardi  Seguso  had  lost 
his  reason.  And  the  Council,  which  was  extremely 
careful  of  its  glaziers,  sent  a  messenger  for  news  to 
Murano.  The  messenger  found  the  artist  with  his 
mistress  Perdilanza  del  Mido,  who  was  caressing  him 
anxiously  and  in  dismay  because  it  had  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  raving.  The  master,  after  having 
looked  at  him  with  flaming  eyes,  burst  into  a  mighty 
laugh  that  reassured  him  more  than  any  words,  and 
calmly  ordered  him  to  refer  to  the  Council  that  by 
the  day  of  the  Sensa  Venice,  besides  San  Marco,  the 
Canalazzo  and  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  would  possess 
another  wonder;  and  the  day  after  he  applied  for 
leave  to  take  possession  of  one  of  the  five  little 
islands  round  Murano  like  the  satellites  of  a  planet, 
that  have  disappeared  to-day,  or  are  changed  into 
sand-banks.  After  having  explored  the  waters  about 
Temodia,  Trencore,  Galbaia,  Mortesina,  and  la  Fo- 
lega,  he  chose  Tremodia  as  one  chooses  a  bride,  and 
Perdilanza  del  Mido  entered  into  great  affliction.  .  .  . 
Look,  Fosca,  we  are  perhaps  passing  now  upon  the 
memory  of  Trem6dia.  The  pipes  of  the  organ  are 
buried  in  the  mud,  but  they  cannot  know  decay. 
They  were  seven  thousand.  We  are  passing  over 
the  ruins  of  a  singing  forest  of  glass.  How  delicate 
the  seaweeds  are  here !  " 

He  was  bending  over  the  beautiful  waters,  and  she 
was  bending  over  them  too  on  the  other  side.  The 
ribbons,  the  feathers,  the  velvet,  the  other  delicate 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  363 

substances  that  made  up  the  head-gear  of  la  Fosca- 
rina  mingled  with  sober  art,  her  eyes  and  the  blue 
shadows  that  encircled  them,  the  very  smile  with 
which  she  made  an  enchanting  grace  of  her  waning 
beauty,  the  bunch  of  jonquils  that  was  fixed  in  the 
prow  in  place  of  the  lantern,  the  rare  imaginings  of  the 
Life-giver,  the  dream-names  of  the  vanished  islands, 
the  blue  appearing  and  disappearing  in  the  snowy  mist, 
the  faint  cries  coming  now  and  then  from  a  flock  of 
invisible  birds,  —  all  the  most  delicate  things  seemed 
conquered  by  the  play  of  those  transient  apparitions, 
by  the  colour  of  the  salt  locks  that  lived  in  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  tide,  coiling  and  turning  as  if  at  an 
alternating  caress.  Two  mingled  miracles  seemed 
to  colour  them.  Green  as  the  grain  fresh  growing  in 
the  furrow,  tawny  as  the  leaf  dying  on  the  young  oak, 
and  green  and  tawny  in  their  innumerable  variations 
as  of  plants  that  both  live  and  die,  they  gave  the 
impression  of  an  ambiguous  season  reigning  exclu- 
sively in  the  bed  of  the  lagoon.  The  light  which 
illumined  them  through  the  clear  water  lost  none  of 
its  strength ;  while  its  mystery  was  increased  so  that 
there  lurked  in  their  languor  a  memory  of  their  obe- 
dience to  the  moon's  attraction. 

"  Why,  then,  did  Perdilanza  enter  into  great  afflic- 
tion?" asked  the  woman,  still  bending  on  the  beau- 
tiful waters. 

"  Because  her  name  had  been  conquered  in  the 
mouth  and  in  the  soul  of  her  lover  by  the  name  of 
Tremodia,  which  he  uttered  passionately,  and  because 
the  island  was  the  only  place  to  which  she  might  not 
follow  him.  There  he  had  constructed  his  new  works, 
and  he  would  remain  there  a  great  part  of  the  day 


364  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

and  nearly  the  whole  night,  assisted  by  his  workmen, 
whom  he  had  bound  by  an  oath  of  silence  sworn  at 
the  altar.  The  Council,  having  given  orders  that  the 
master  should  be  provided  with  all  that  might  be 
needful  for  his  terrible  work,  condemned  him  to  de- 
capitation, in  case  the  same  work  should  turn  out 
inferior  to  his  pride.  Then  Dardi  tied  a  scarlet  thread 
round  his  bare  neck." 

La  Foscarina  straightened  herself  to  arrange  her- 
self more  comfortably.  She  was  in  a  dream.  She 
was  losing  herself  as  in  the  labyrinth,  between  the 
apparitions  at  the  bottom  of  the  lagoon  and  those  of 
the  story,  and  she  was  beginning  to  feel  the  same 
anxiety  as  reality  mingled  with  the  phantoms  in 
her  spirit.  He  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  himself  in 
those  strange  images,  as  when  in  the  last  hour  of  the 
September  twilight  he  had  declared  to  her  the  myth 
of  the  pomegranate ;  and  the  name  of  the  imaginary 
woman  began  precisely  with  the  first  two  syllables 
of  the  name  he  used  to  give  her  then !  Did  he  wish 
to  signify  something  under  the  veil  of  his  story? 
And  what  then?  And  why  did  it  please  him,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  place  where  she  had  been 
seized  by  that  horrible  laughter  to  call  up  by  that 
phantasy  the  memory  of  the  broken  cup?  —  The  en- 
chantment was  broken,  oblivion  vanished.  By  trying 
to  understand,  she  herself  fashioned  with  that  dream- 
matter  an  instrument  of  torture.  She  seemed  to  for- 
get that  her  friend  was  unconscious  of  her  coming 
farewell.  She  looked  at  him,  recognised  in  his  face 
the  intellectual  joy  that  always  shone  in  him  like 
something  sharp  and  adamantine.  Instinctively  she 
said  to  herself,  "  I  am  going ;  do  not  wound  me  !  " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  365 

"  Zorzi,  what  is  that  white  thing  floating  there  under 
that  wall?  "  he  asked  the  boatman  behind  him. 

They  were  coasting  by  Murano.  The  garden  walls 
appeared  and  the  tops  of  the  laurel  shrubs ;  the  black 
smoke  of  the  furnaces  floated  like  mourning  raiments 
hanging  in  the  silvery  air. 

Then,  with  sudden  horror,  the  actress  saw  the  dis- 
tant port  where  the  great  throbbing  ship  was  waiting 
for  her,  saw  the  perpetual  cloud  on  the  brutal  city  of 
the  thousand  and  thousand  roads,  with  its  mountains 
of  coal,  its  forests  of  masts,  its  monstrous  arms.  She 
heard  the  thud  of  sledge-hammers,  the  creaking  of 
the  cranes,  the  panting  of  the  engines,  the  vast  moan 
of  the  iron  under  the  burning  darkness. 

"  It  is  a  dead  dog,"  said  the  oarsman. 

A  swollen,  yellowish  carcass  was  floating  under  the 
red  brick  wall  in  the  cracks  of  which  grasses  and 
flowers  trembled  that  were  children  of  ruin  and  wind. 

"  Row,"  cried  Stelio,  full  of  disgust. 

The  woman  closed  her  eyes.  The  boat  leaped  un- 
der the  effort  of  the  oars,  gliding  swiftly  on  the  milky 
water;  the  sky  had  become  quite  white;  an  equally 
diffused  splendour  reigned  on  the  estuary.  Fisher- 
men's voices  came  from  a  barge  laden  with  green 
stuff.  A  twittering  of  sparrows  came  from  San 
Giacomo  di  Palude.  A  siren  screeched  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"And  then  the  man  with  the  scarlet  thread?  .  .  ." 
la  Foscarina  asked,  anxious  to  hear  the  remainder 
because  she  wanted  to  understand. 

"  Often  he  felt  his  head  shaking  on  his  shoulders," 
Stelio  continued,  laughing.  "  He  was  obliged  to  blow 
tubes  that  were  as  thick  as  the  trunks  of  trees,  and 


^66  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

he  had  to  do  it  with  the  art  of  a  Hving  mouth,  not 
with  the  strength  of  a  bellows,  and  at  a  single  breath, 
and  without  interruptions.  Imagine  !  The  lungs  of 
a  Cyclops  would  not  have  been  sufficient.  Ah,  one 
day  I  shall  tell  the  ardour  of  that  life  placed  between 
the  executioner's  axe  and  the  necessity  of  a  miracle, 
in  communion  with  the  elements.  He  had  fire,  earth, 
and  water,  but  air  was  missing,  the  motion  of  air. 
Meanwhile  the  Ten  sent  him  a  red-haired  man  to  bid 
him  good-day  every  morning:  you  know?  that  red- 
haired  man  with  his  cap  on  his  eyes,  who  stands  em- 
bracing the  column  in  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi  by 
the  second  Bonifazio.  After  infinite  attempts  a 
good  idea  came  to  Dardi.  That  day  he  conversed 
with  the  Priscianese,  under  the  laurels  of  the  palace, 
of  yEolus  and  his  twelve  sons  and  of  the  landing  of 
the  Laertian  on  the  western  island.  He  re-read 
Homer,  Virgil,  and  Ovid  in  Aldo's  beautiful  types. 
Then  he  went  and  sought  a  wizard  who  had  the 
fame  of  being  able  to  cast  a  spell  on  the  winds 
in  favour  of  long  navigations.  '  Mi  gavaria  bisogno 
de  un  venteselo  ne  tropo  forte  ne  tropo  fiapo  docile 
da  podermelo  manipolar  come  che  vogio  mi,  un 
venteselo  che  me  serva  per  supiar  certi  veri  che  go 
in  testa.  .  .  ,  Leiiius  aspirans  mira  sectmda  venit.  .  .  , 
M'  astu  capio,  vechio?  '  "  ^ 

The  story-teller  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh,  because 
he  could  see  the  scene  with  all  its  details  in  a  house 
in  the  Calle  de  la  Testa  at  San  Zanepolo,  where  the 

*  "  I  am  in  need  of  a  little  wind,  neither  too  strong  nor  too  feeble, 
and  quite  docile,  that  I  could  manage  as  I  please;  a  little  wind  with 
which  to  blow  some  glass  which  I  have  in  my  head.  .  .  .  Leniui 
aspirans  aura  secunda  ventt.  .  .  .  Have  you  understood  me,  old  man  ?  " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  36; 

Schiavone  lived  with  his  daughter  Cornelia  Schivo- 
netta,  honorata  cortegiana  (piezo  so  pare  scudi  2).^ 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  Is  he  going  mad  ?  " 
thought  the  two  boatmen,  on  hearing  him  speak  their 
dialect,  mingled  with  obscure  words. 

La  Foscarina  tried  to  second  his  gaiety,  but  she 
was  suffering  from  his  youthful  laughter  as  once 
before  in  the  mazes  of  the  labyrinth. 

"  The  story  is  long,"  he  added ;  "  one  day  I  shall 
do  something  with  it,  but  I  am  keeping  it  for  some 
idle  time.  .  .  .  Imagine !  the  Schiavone  works  the 
spell.  Every  night  Dardi  sends  his  boatman  to  the 
Tre  Porti  to  lay  the  trap  for  the  Little  Wind.  At 
last  one  night  not  long  before  dawn,  while  the  moon 
is  setting  they  surprise  it  sleeping  on  a  sand-bank  in 
the  midst  of  a  flock  of  tired  swallows  brought  hither 
by  it.  .  .  .  It  is  lying  there  prostrate,  sleeping  as 
lightly  as  a  child  in  the  aroma  of  the  sea-salt,  almost 
entirely  covered  by  the  numberless  forked  tails. 
The  rising  tide  favours  its  sleep ;  the  black  and  white 
travellers  flutter  all  over  it,  wearied  by  their  long 
flight.  .  .  ." 

"  How  pretty  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman  at  the  fresh 
picture.     "  Where  have  you  seen  it?  " 

"  And  here  begins  the  grace  of  the  fable :  they 
seize  it,  bind  it  with  willows,  take  it  on  board,  and 
sail  towards  Tremodia.  The  boat  is  invaded  by  the 
swallows  that  will  not  abandon  their  leader." 

Stelio  stopped,  because  the  details  of  the  adven- 
ture were  thronging  to  his  imagination  in  such  num- 
bers that  he  did  not  know  which  of  them  to  choose. 
But  he  listened  to  a  song  that  was  in  the  air  coming 

^  An  honourable  courtesan  (at  the  house  of  her  father,  two  crowns). 


368  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

from  the  direction  of  San  Francesco  del  Deserto. 
They  could  discern  the  slightly  inclined  belfry  of 
Burano,  and  behind  the  island  of  thread  the  belfry  of 
Torcello  in  its  solitary  splendour. 

"And  then,"  urged  his  companion. 

"  I  can  say  no  more,  Fosca ;  I  know  too  many 
things.  .  .  .  Ima:gine  that  Dardi  falls  in  love  with 
his  prisoner.  ...  Its  name  is  Ornitio  because  it  is 
the  leader  of  migrating  birds.  A  continual  twitter  of 
swallows  is  about  Tremodia;  the  nests  hang  from 
the  posts  and  the  shafts  of  the  scaffolding  that  sur- 
rounds the  work !  Sometimes  a  wing  is  burnt  by 
the  flame  of  the  furnace  when  Ornitio  blows  into  the 
iron,  making  a  light  luminous  column  with  the  in- 
candescent paste.  Ah,  but  what  trouble  had  to  be 
gone  through  before  it  could  be  tamed  and  taught 
its  work !  The  Lord  of  the  Flame  began  by  talking 
Latin  to  it  and  reciting  to  it  some  of  Virgil's  poetry, 
thinking  to  be  understood.  But  the  blue-haired 
Ornitio  spoke  Greek,  of  course,  with  a  slightly  hissing 
accent.  ...  It  knew  two  of  Sapho's  odes  by  heart 
unknown  to  classical  scholars  that  it  had  brought  one 
spring  day  from  Mitylene  to  Chio ;  and  in  breathing 
through  the  unequal  tubes,  it  remembered  the  pipe 
of  Pan  .  .  .  One  day  I  will  tell  you  all  these  things." 

••  And  what  did  it  live  on  ?  " 

"  On  pollen  and  salt.  " 

"  And  who  brought  it  this  food?" 

'*  No  one.     It  was  sufficient  for  it  to  breathe  the 
pollen  and  the  salt  that  are  diffused  in  the  air." 

"  And  did  it  not  try  to  escape?  " 

"  Always.    But  Dardi  used  infinite  precautions,  like 
the  lover  he  was. " 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  369 

"And  did  Ornitio  return  his  love?" 

"  Yes,  it  began  to  return  his  love  because  it  liked 
the  scarlet  thread  that  the  master  always  wore  round 
his  bare  neck. " 

"And  Perdilanza?" 

"  She  languished  in  her  sorrow,  forsaken.  Some 
day  I  will  tell  you.  ...  I  will  go  one  summer  on  the 
seashore  of  Palestrina  to  compose  this  fable  for  you 
by  the  golden  sand." 

"But  how  does  it  end?" 

"  The  miracle  takes  place ;  the  arch-organ  is  built 
in  Tremodia  with  its  seven  thousand  glass  pipes,  like 
one  of  those  congealed  forests  that  Ornitio,  inclined 
to  magnify  its  journeys,  declared  it  had  seen  in  the 
country  of  the  Iporborrei.  And  on  the  day  of  the 
Sensa,  the  Serenissimo,  between  the  Patriarch  and  the 
Archbishop  of  Spalatro  goes  forth  upon  the  harbour 
of  San  Marco  in  the  Bucintoro.  Ornitio  believes  it 
must  be  the  Cronide  returning  in  triumph,  so  great  is 
the  pomp.  The  cataracts  are  let  loose  round  Trem6- 
dia,  and  animated  by  the  eternal  silence  of  the  lagoon, 
the  gigantic  instrument,  at  the  magic  touch  of  the 
new  musician,  spreads  a  wave  of  harmonies,  so  vast 
that  it  reaches  the  mainland  and  travels  down  the 
Adriatic.  The  Bucintoro  stops  because  its  forty  oars 
have  suddenly  dropped  along  its  sides  like  wounded 
wings,  abandoned  on  their  rowlocks  by  the  bewildered 
crew.  But  suddenly  the  wave  breaks,  dwindles  to  a 
few  discordant  sounds,  hesitates,  and  melts  away. 
Dardi  suddenly  feels  the  instrument  growing  dumb 
under  his  hands  as  if  its  soul  had  failed  it,  —  as  if 
some  strange  force  working  in  its  depths  had  ravaged 
the    prodigious    instrument.     What    has    happened? 


370  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

All  he  hears  is  the  great  clamour  of  scorn  that  passes 
between  the  silenced  pipes,  with  the  noise  of  artillery 
and  the  tumult  of  the  populace,  A  canoe  leaves  the 
Bucintoro  bearing  the  red-haired  man  with  his  block 
and  his  axe.  The  blow  aims  at  the  scarlet  thread. 
The  head  falls,  and  is  thrown  on  the  water,  where  it 
floats  like  the  head  of  Orpheus,  ..." 

"  What  had  happened  ?  " 

"  Perdilanza  had  thrown  herself  in  the  cataract ! 
The  water  had  dragged  her  into  the  depths  of  the 
organ.  The  body  with  all  its  famous  hair  thus  placed 
itself  across  the  great  delicate  instrument  stifling  its 
musical  heart.  .  .  ." 

"But  Ornitio?" 

"  Ornitio  picks  up  the  bleeding  head  on  the  water 
and  flies  away  towards  the  sea.  The  swallows  hear 
of  its  flight  and  follow  it.  In  a  few  seconds  a  black 
and  white  cloud  of  swallows  thickens  round  the 
fugitive.  All  the  nests  remain  empty  at  this  sud- 
den departure,  in  Venice  and  in  the  islands.  The 
summer  has  no  more  flights.  September  no  longer 
knows  the  farewells  that  once  made  it  both  sad  and 
joyful.  .  .  ." 

"And  Dardi's  head?" 

"  Where  it  can  be,  no  one  knows  !  "  the  story-teller 
concluded,  laughing. 

And  again  he  fell  to  listening  to  the  song  that  was 
in  the  air,  in  which  he  was  beginning  to  distinguish  a 
rhythm. 

"  Do  you  hear?  "  he  said. 

And  he  signed  to  the  oarsmen  to  stop.  The  oars 
rested  on  the  rowlocks. 

The  silence  was  so  intense   that  one  could   hear 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  371 

both  the  song  in  the  distance  and  the  dripping  of 
the  water  from  the  posts. 

"That  is  the  wood-lark,"  Zorzi  informed  them  in 
a  subdued  voice ;  "  it  still  sings,  poor  thing,  to  the 
memory  of  Saint  Francis." 

"  Row !  " 

The  gondola  glided  on  the  milky  quiet  of  the 
water. 

"  Would  you  Hke  to  row  on  to  San  Francesco, 
Fosca?" 

The  woman's  head  was  bent  in  thought. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  a  hidden  meaning  in  your  story," 
she  said  after  a  pause.     "  Perhaps  I  have  understood." 

"  Alas,  yes,  if  there  were  any  similarity  between 
my  daring  and  that  of  the  man  of  Murano.  I  think 
that  I  too  should  wear  as  a  warning  a  scarlet  thread 
round  my  neck." 

"  You  will  have  your  great  destiny.  I  have  no  fear 
for  you." 

His  laugh  ceased. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  I  must  win,  and  you  shall  help 
me.  Every  morning  I  too  receive  my  threatening 
visitor,  —  the  expectation  of  those  who  love  me  and  of 
those  who  hate  me,  of  my  friends  and  of  my  enemies. 
Expectation  should  wear  the  executioner's  dress 
because  nothing  on  earth  is  more  pitiless." 

"  But  it  is  the  measure  of  your  power." 
He  felt  the  vulture's  beak  at  his  heart.  Instinc- 
tively he  drew  himself  up,  seized  by  a  blind  impatience 
that  made  the  slowness  of  their  progress  a  suffering. 
Why  was  he  lying  idle?  At  every  hour,  at  every 
moment,  he  should  be  feeling,  struggling,  increasing 
and    asserting   himself  against   destruction,    diminu- 


372  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

tion,  violation  and  contagion.  At  every  hour,  at 
every  moment,  his  eyes  should  be  fixed  on  his  aim,  all 
his  energies  should  be  made  to  converge  to  it  with- 
out fail  and  without  respite.  —  Thus  the  need  of 
glory  seemed  ever  awakening  within  him  a  warlike 
instinct,  the  madness  of  struggle  and  retaliation. 

"  Do  you  know  this  maxim  of  the  great  Heracli- 
tus,'  '  the  name  of  the  bow  is  BIOS  and  its  work  is 
death '  ?  This  is  a  maxim  that  excites  our  spirit  even 
before  communicating  to  it  its  precise  meaning.  I 
heard  it  continually  repeated  within  me  while  sitting 
at  your  table  that  autumn  night  at  the  Epiphany  of 
the  Flame.  I  went  through  an  hour  of  truly  Diony- 
sian  life,  an  hour  of  delirium  restrained  but  as  terrible 
as  if  I  were  holding  in  myself  the  burning  mountain 
where  the  Thyades  howl  and  writhe.  Now  and  then 
I  actually  seemed  to  hear  songs  and  clamours  and  the 
cries  of  a  distant  massacre.  And  it  surprised  me  that 
I  could  remain  motionless,  and  the  sense  of  my  bodily 
stillness  seemed  to  increase  my  deep  frenzy,  and  I 
could  see  nothing  else  but  your  face,  which  had  sud- 
denly become  most  beautiful ;  and  in  your  whole  per- 
son I  could  see  the  might  of  all  your  soul,  and  behind 
it  I  could  also  see  other  countries  and  multitudes. 
Ah,  if  I  could  only  tell  you  how  I  saw  you  in  the 
tumult  while  the  marvellous  images  passed  accom- 
panied by  gusts  of  music  !  I  spoke  to  you  as  if  across 
a  battle-field.  I  threw  out  a  rallying  cry  that  you 
perhaps  heard,  not  for  love  only,  but  for  glory,  not  for 
one  thirst,  but  for  two  thirsts,  and  I  knew  not  which 
was  the  most  ardent.  And  the  face  of  my  work 
appeared  to  me  then  the  same  as  your  face.  I  saw 
it!     Do  you   hear?     With   incredible    rapidity  my 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  373 

work  shaped  itself  into  words  and  song  and  gesture 
and  symphony.  It  was  so  Hving  that  if  only  I  suc- 
ceeded in  breathing  a  small  part  of  it  into  the  forms  I 
wish  to  express  I  could  truly  inflame  the  world." 

He  spoke,  controlling  his  voice ;  and  the  smothered 
impulse  of  his  words  seemed  to  have  a  strange  reflec- 
tion in  the  calm  water,  in  the  white  glare  that 
prolonged  the  even  cadence  of  the  two  oars. 

"  Expression,  that  is  the  necessity.  The  greatest 
vision  has  no  value  unless  it  be  manifested  and  con- 
densed in  living  forms.  And  I  have  everything  to 
create.  I  am  not  pouring  my  substance  into  heredi- 
tary forms.  My  whole  work  is  an  invention ;  I  can- 
not and  will  not  obey  other  than  my  own  instinct  and 
the  genius  of  my  race.  And,  nevertheless,  like  Dardi, 
who  saw  the  famous  organ  in  the  house  of  Caterino 
Zeno,  I  too  have  another  work  before  my  spirit,  a 
work  accomplished  by  a  formidable  creator  that 
stands  gigantic  in  the  midst  of  men." 

The  image  of  the  barbaric  creator  reappeared  to 
him ;  the  blue  eyes  shone  under  the  vast  forehead ; 
the  lips  tightened  above  the  robust  chin  armed  with 
sensuality  and  pride  and  disdain.  Then  he  saw  once 
more  the  white  hair  blown  about  by  the  sharp  wind 
on  the  aged  neck,  under  the  wide  brim  of  the  felt 
hat  and  the  almost  livid  ear  with  the  swollen  lobe. 
Then  he  saw  the  motionless  body  lying  unconscious 
on  the  knees  of  the  woman  with  the  face  of  snow, 
and  the  slight  tremor  in  one  of  the  hanging  feet. 
He  thought  of  his  own  ineffable  quiver  of  fear  and 
joy  when  he  had  suddenly  felt  that  sacred  heart 
beating  again  beneath  his  hand. 
,    "  Ah !   not  before  but  round  my  spirit,  I  should 


374  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

say.  Sometimes  it  is  like  the  sea  in  a  tempest,  try- 
ing to  drag  me  down  and  swallow  me.  My  Temodia 
is  a  rock  of  granite  in  the  open  sea,  and  I  am  like 
an  artisan  intent  on  building  up  on  it  a  pure  Doric 
temple,  having  to  defend  the  order  of  his  columns 
from  the  violence  of  the  waves,  his  spirit  incessantly 
strained  that  he  may  never  cease  through  all  that 
noise  to  hear  the  secret  rhythm  which  alone  must 
regulate  the  intervals  between  his  lines  and  hi?  spaces. 
In  this  sense,  too,  my  Tragedy  is  a  battle." 

Once  more  he  saw  the  patrician  palace  as  it  had 
appeared  to  him  in  the  early  October  dawn  with  its 
eagles,  its  horses,  its  pitchers,  and  its  roses,  closed 
and  dumb  like  a  great  sepulchre,  while  above  it  the 
breath  of  the  day  was  kindling  the  sky. 

"  In  that  dawn,"  he  added,  "  passing  through  the 
Canal  after  the  night's  delirium,  I  gathered  from  a 
garden  wall  some  violet  flowers  that  grew  in  the  in- 
terstices of  the  brick,  and  I  made  the  gondola  stop 
by  the  Palazzo  Vendramin  and  threw  them  before 
the  door.  The  offering  was  too  small ;  I  thought  of 
laurels  and  myrtles  and  cypresses.  But  the  sponta- 
neous act  served  to  express  my  gratitude  towards 
Him  who  was  to  impose  on  my  spirit  the  necessity 
of  being  heroic  in  its  liberating  and  creating  effort." 

Bursting  into  sudden  laughter,  he  turned  to  the 
oarsman  at  the  poop  :  — 

"  Do  you  remember,  Zorzi,  our  regatta  one  morn- 
ing to  reach  the  braghozzo  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  remember  !  What  a  row  it  was  !  My 
arms  are  still  stiff!  And  that  rascally  hunger,  master, 
where  do  you  put  it?  Every  time  I  see  the  master  of 
the  boat,  he  asks  after  the  stranger  who  ate  up  that 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  375 

loaf  of  bread  with  that  basket  of  figs  and  raisins.  He 
says  that  he  will  never  forget  that  day,  because  he 
drew  the  heaviest  net  of  his  life.  He  caught  such 
mackerel  as  is  never  to  be  seen.  .  .  ." 

The  oarsman  went  on  chattering  until  he  noticed 
that  his  master  was  no  longer  listening  to  him  artd 
that  he  was  expected  to  keep  quiet,  even  to  hold  his 
breath. 

"  Do  you  hear  the  song?  "  said  Stelio  to  his  friend, 
gently  taking  one  of  her  hands  because  it  distressed 
him  to  have  awakened  a  memory  which  gave  her 
pain. 

Raising  her  face  she  said :  — 

"Where  is  it?     Is  it  in  Heaven?     Is  it  on  earth?" 

An  endless  melody  was  flowing  over  the  peaceful 
whiteness. 

She  said :  — 

"  How  it  rises  !  " 

She  felt  a  quiver  pass  through  her  friend's  hand. 

"  When  Alessandro  enters  the  illuminated  room 
where  the  virgin  has  been  reading  the  lamentation  of 
Antigone,"  he  said,  gathering  from  his  consciousness 
some  sign  of  the  obscure  process  which  was  going  on 
in  the  depths  of  his  mystery,  "  he  tells  how  he  has 
come  on  horseback  through  the  plain  of  Argos, 
crossing  the  Inachus,  a  river  of  burnt  up  flint;  the 
whole  country  is  covered  with  little  wild  flowers 
that  are  dying,  and  the  song  of  the  larks  fills  the 
sky  .  .  .  thousands  of  skylarks,  a  multitude  without 
number.  .  .  .  He  tells  how  one  fell  all  of  a  sudden 
at  the  feet  of  his  horse,  heavy  as  a  stone,  and  re- 
mained there  silent,  struck  down  by  its  own  frenzy, 
by  having  sung  with  too  much   joy.     He  picked  it 


3/6  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

up.  *  Here  it  is.*  You  then  hold  out  your  hand 
towards  him ;  you  take  it  and  murmur :  '  Ah,  it  is 
still  warm.'  .  .  .  While  you  are  speaking  the  virgin 
trembles.     You  can  feel  her  trembling."  .  .  . 

Again  the  tragic  actress  felt  the  chill  at  the  roots 
of  her  hair  as  if  the  soul  of  the  blind  woman  were 
re-entering  her  own  soul. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  Prelude  the  impetus  of  the 
chromatic  progressions  expresses  this  growing  joy,  the 
anxiety  of  delight.  .  .  .  Listen,  listen !  .  .  .  Ah,  what 
a  marvel !  This  morning,  Fosca,  only  this  morning 
I  was  at  my  work.  .  .  .  My  own  melody  now  develops 
itself  in  the  heavens.  ...  Is  not  grace  upon  us?" 

A  spirit  of  life  was  running  through  the  solitude ; 
a  vehement  aspiration  filled  the  silence  with  emotion. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  natural  desire  of  ascension  were 
passing  like  an  awakening,  or  the  announcement  of 
some  great  return,  over  the  motionless  lines,  the  empty 
horizon,  the  flat  waters,  and  the  outstretched  shores. 
The  woman  gave  up  her  whole  soul  to  it  as  a  leaf 
gives  itself  up  to  the  whirlwind,  ravished  to  the 
heights  of  love  and  faith.  But  a  feverish  impatience 
to  act,  a  desire  of  work,  a  need  of  hastening  the  ac- 
complishment, seized  the  young  man.  His  capacity 
for  work  seemed  multiplied.  He  considered  the  ful- 
ness of  the  hours  to  come.  He  saw  the  concrete 
aspects  of  his  work,  the  mass  of  pages,  the  volume  of 
scores,  the  variety  of  the  task,  the  wealth  of  the  sub- 
stances capable  of  receiving  rhythm.  In  the  same 
way  he  saw  the  Roman  hill,  the  rising  building,  the 
harmony  of  cut  stones,  the  workmen  busy  with  their 
masonry,  the  architect  watching  them,  severe  and 
vigilant,  the  Vatican  standing  before  the  Theatre  of 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  377 

Apollo,  and  the  Holy  City  beneath  it.  Smiling,  he 
called  up  the  image  of  the  little  man  who  was  sup- 
porting the  work  with  truly  papal  magnificence,  sa- 
luting the  bloodless,  large-nosed  figure  of  the  Roman 
prince  who  had  not  degenerated  from  the  traditions 
of  his  name,  and  who,  with  the  gold  accumulated  in 
centuries  of  plunder  and  nepotism,  was  btiilding  up 
an  harmonious  temple  for  the  Renaissance  of  the 
Arts  that  had  thrown  a  ray  of  beauty  on  the  mighty 
lives  of  his  fathers. 

"  In  a  week's  time,  Fosca,  if  grace  assist  me,  my 
Prelude  will  be  finished.  I  should  like  to  try  it  with 
an  orchestra  immediately.  I  shall  perhaps  go  to 
Rome  for  this.  Antimo  della  Bella  is  more  anxious 
even  than  I  am.  I  get  a  letter  from  him  nearly 
every  morning.  I  think  my  presence  in  Rome  for 
a  few  days  is  necessary  also  in  order  to  avoid  some 
error  in  the  construction  of  the  Theatre.  Antimo 
writes  concerning  the  possibility  of  pulling  down  the 
old  stone  steps  leading  from  the  Corsini  Garden  to 
the  Janiculum.  I  don't  know  whether  you  remember 
the  aspect  of  the  place?  The  road  that  will  lead 
to  the  Theatre  passes  under  the  Arch  of  Septimus, 
turns  along  the  side  of  the  Palazzo  Corsini,  crosses 
the  garden,  and  reaches  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The 
hill  —  do  you  remember?  —  is  all  green,  covered  with 
little  fields,  canes,  cypresses,  plane-trees,  laurels,  and 
holm-oaks;  it  has  a  wooded  and  sacred  look,  with 
its  crown  of  tall  Italian  pines.  There  is  quite  a 
forest  of  holm-oaks  on  its  slope  watered  by  subterra- 
nean streams.  All  the  hill  is  steeped  in  a  wealth  of 
living  waters.  The  fountain  Paulina  towers  on  the 
left.     The    Parrasio   wood,  the   ancient   seat   of  the 


378  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Arcadi,  blackens  below  it.  A  flight  of  stone  steps 
in  two  branches,  passing  along  a  succession  of  wide, 
overflowing  basins,  leads  to  a  raised  plain  from 
which  open  two  paths  flanked  by  truly  Apollo-like 
laurels,  indeed  worthy  of  leading  men  towards  poetry. 
Who  could  imagine  a  more  noble  entrance?  Cen- 
turies have  shrouded  it  in  mystery ;  the  stone  of  the 
steps,  of  the  balustrades,  of  the  basins,  of  the  statues, 
vies  in  roughness  with  the  bark  of  the  venerable 
plane-trees  that  old  age  has  made  hollow.  No  sound 
is  heard  but  the  song  of  birds,  the  splash  of  the 
fountains,  and  the  murmur  of  leaves.  Ah !  and  I 
believe  that  poets  and  simple  souls  can  even  hear  the 
throb  of  the  Hamadryads  and  the  breath  of  Pan.  .  .  ." 

The  aerial  chorus  was  rising,  rising  untiringly,  fill- 
ing every  space  with  itself  like  the  immense  desert, 
like  the  infinite  light.  The  impetuous  melody  created 
in  the  sleep  of  the  lagoon,  the  illusion  of  a  unani- 
mous anxiety  that  rose  from  the  waters,  from  the 
sands,  from  the  grasses,  from  the  vapours,  from  all 
natural  things  to  follow  the  ascension.  All  those 
things  which  had  seemed  inert,  now  seemed  to  be 
breathing  deeply,  to  be  gifted  with  a  soul  that  was 
full  of  emotion,  possessed  by  a  desire  of  expression. 

"  Listen  !     Listen  !  " 

And  the  images  of  life  created  by  the  Life-giver, 
and  the  ancient  names  of  those  immortal  energies 
circulating  in  the  Universe,  and  the  aspirations  of 
tn.A  to  transcend  the  circle  of  their  daily  torment, 
to  appease  themselves  in  the  splendour  of  an  Idea, 
and  all  wishes,  and  hopes,  and  daring,  and  effort  in 
that  place  of  hope  and  oblivion,  before  that  humble 
island  where  the  Spouse  of  Poverty  had  left  the  traces 


THE  EMPIRE  OF   SILENCE  379 

of  himself,  seemed  delivered  from  the  shadow  of 
Death  by  the  mere  virtue  of  that  song. 

"  Does  it  not  seem  like  the  frenzied  joy  of  an 
assault?  " 

The  squalid  shores,  the  crumbling  stones,  the 
putrefying  roots,  the  traces  of  destroyed  works, 
the  odours  of  dissolution,  the  funereal  cypresses,  the 
black  crosses,  in  vain  reminded  him  of  the  same 
words  that  the  statues  along  the  river  had  spoken 
with  their  lips  of  stone.  Only  that  song  of  victory 
and  liberty,  stronger  than  all  other  signs,  touched 
the  heart  of  him  who  was  to  create  with  joy.  "  On ! 
on  !     Higher  !  ever  higher !  " 

And  the  heart  of  Perdita,  purified  from  all  coward- 
ice, ready  for  every  test,  seconding  the  hymn's  ascen- 
sion, betrothed  itself  to  life  again.  As  in  the  distant 
hour  of  that  night's  delirium  the  woman  repeated: 
'*  Let  me  serve !     Let  me  serve !  " 

The  boat  entered  a  canal  closed  between  two  green 
banks,  which  reached  the  line  of  the  eye  so  precisely 
that  one  could  see  the  numberless  reeds  and  point 
out  the  new  ones  by  their  lighter  colour. 

"  Laudato  si,  mi  signore,  per  sora  nostra  matre  terra, 
la  quale  ne  sustenta  et  governa 
et  produce  diversi  fructi  con  coloriti  flori  et  herba.** 

From  the  fulness  of  her  soul  the  woman  measured 
the  love  of  the  Poor  Man  of  Assisi  for  all  created 
things.  Such  was  her  abundance  that  she  sought  for 
living  things  to  worship  everywhere;  and  her  look 

^  "  Be  praised,  my  Lord,  for  our  Lady  the  Mother  Earth  who  feeds 
and  governs  us  and  brings  forth  divers  fruits  with  coloured  flowers 
and  grass." 


38o  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

became  childlike  again,  and  all  those  things  were 
reflected  in  it  as  in  the  peace  of  the  water,  and  some 
seemed  to  return  from  the  far  past  and  reappear  like 
unexpected  apparitions. 

When  the  ship  touched  the  shore,  she  was  aston- 
ished at  having  arrived  already. 

"  Would  you  like  to  land  or  would  you  prefer  to  go 
back?  "  Stelio  asked  her,  pulling  himself  together. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  because  her  hand  was  in 
his,  and  the  separation  would  have  been  a  lessening  of 
the  sweetness. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "  Let  us  walk  a 
little  on  this  grass  too." 

They  landed  on  the  island  of  San  Francesco.  A 
few  young  cypress-trees  greeted  them  shyly.  No 
human  face  appeared.  The  invisible  myriads  filled 
the  desert  with  their  praise.  The  mist  was  rising, 
massing  into  clouds,  obscuring  the  sun.  ' 

"  How  much  grass  we  have  walked  on,  have  we 
not,  .Stelio?" 

He  said,  — 

"  But  now  comes  the  steep  boulder  to  climb." 

She  said,  — 

"  Let  the  boulder  come  and  let  the  ascent  be  steep." 

He  wondered  at  the  unusual  joy  in  her  tone.  He 
looked  at  her  and  saw  intoxication  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  do  we  feel  so  free  and  happy  in 
this  lonely  island  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  why?  " 

"  This  is  a  sad  pilgrimage  for  other  people.  Those 
who  come  to  this  place  leave  it  with  the  taste  of  death 
in  their  mouths." 

She  said :  — 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  381 

**  We  are  in  a  state  of  grace." 

He  said :  — 

"  They  who  hope  most,  live  most." 

She  said :  — 

"  They  who  love  most,  hope  most" 

The  rhythm  of  the  aerial  song  went  on,  attracting 
their  ideal  essences. 

He  said :  — 

"  How  beautiful  you  are  !  " 

A  sudden  blush  covered  the  impassioned  face. 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  quivering.  She  half 
closed  her  eyes.     In  a  suppressed  voice  she  said :  — 

"  A  warm  current  is  passing.  Did  you  not  feel  a 
rush  of  warmth  on  the  water  from  time  to  time?" 

She  drank  the  air  in. 

"  There  is  something  like  a  smell  of  new-mown  hay. 
Do  you  notice  it?  " 

"  It  is  the  smell  of  the  banks  full  of  seaweeds  that 
are  being  uncovered." 

"  Look  what  a  beautiful  landscape." 

"  Le  Vignole.  And  that  is  the  Lido.  And  that  is 
the  island  of  Sant'  Erasmo." 

The  sun  had  cast  its  veils  and  was  now  embracing 
the  estuary.  The  moisture  of  the  emerging  sand- 
banks suggested  the  brightness  of  flowers.  The 
shadows  of  the  small  cypress-trees  were  beginning  to 
lengthen  and  becoming  of  a  deeper  blue. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  that  almond-trees  are 
blossoming  in  the  neighbourhood.  Let  us  go  on  the 
dyke." 

She  threw  her  head  back  with  one  of  those  move- 
ments that  were  natural  to  her,  that  seemed  to  break 
a  bond  or  rid  her  of  an  impediment. 


382  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

"  Wait !  " 

And  drawing  out  the  two  pins  that  fastened  her  hat, 
she  quickly  uncovered  her  head.  She  went  back  to 
the  steps  of  the  landing  and  threw  the  shining  thing 
into  the  gondola.  Then  she  returned  to  her  friend 
nimbly,  running  her  fingers  through  the  mass  of  her 
hair,  and  the  air  passed  through  it  and  the  sun  shone 
on  it.  She  seemed  to  feel  reheved,  as  if  her  breathing 
were  easier. 

"Did  the  wings  hurt?  "  said  Stelio,  laughing. 

And  he  looked  at  the  rough  furrow,  not  ploughed 
by  the  comb,  but  by  the  storm. 

"  Yes,  the  smallest  weight  worries  me.  If  it  did 
not  seem  strange,  I  should  always  go  bareheaded. 
But  when  I  see  the  trees,  I  cannot  hold  out  any  more. 
My  hair  remembers  its  wild  birth,  and  longs  to 
breathe  in  its  own  way,  in  the  desert  at  least." 

She  spoke  frankly  and  vivaciously,  walking  on  the 
grass  with  her  quick  swinging  movement  And  Stelio 
remembered  the  day  when,  in  the  Gradenigo  garden, 
she  had  seemed  to  him  very  like  the  beautiful  tawny 
greyhound. 

"  Oh,  here  is  a  Capuchin  friar !  " 

The  friar  was  coming  towards  them  and  greeted 
them  affably.  He  offered  to  show  the  visitors  round 
the  monastery,  but  informed  them  that  the  cloister 
was  closed  to  his  companion. 

"  Shall  I  go  in?"  said  Stelio,  looking  at  his  com- 
panion, who  was  smiling. 

"  Yes,  go  !  " 

"  And  you  will  remain  alone?  " 

"  I  will  remain  alone." 

"  I  will  bring  you  a  piece  of  the  sacred  pine-tree." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  383 

He  followed  the  Franciscan  under  the  portico  where 
the  empty  swallows'  nests  hung  from  the  raftered  ceil- 
ing. Before  crossing  the  threshold  he  turned  once 
more  to  say  good-bye  to  his  companion.  The  door 
closed  upon  him. 

"O  BEATA  SOLlftDO! 
O  SOLA  BEATITUDO  !  " 

Then,  as  a  sudden  change  in  one  of  the  stops  at 
once  changes  all  the  notes  in  an  organ,  all  the 
woman's  thoughts  were  transfigured.  The  horror  of 
absence,  the  worst  of  all  evils,  stood  before  her  loving 
soul.  Her  friend  was  no  longer  there :  she  no  longer 
heard  his  voice,  no  longer  felt  him  breathing;  she  no 
longer  grasped  his  kind,  firm  hand.  She  no  longer 
saw  him  live,  no  longer  felt  the  air,  the  light,  the 
shadows,  the  whole  life  of  the  world,  harmonise  with 
his  life.  "'  What  if  he  should  not  come  back,  if  that 
door  were  not  to  reopen?"  It  could  not  be.  He 
would  certainly  cross  that  threshold  again  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  she  would  receive  hini  again  into  her 
eyes  and  her  very  being.  But  it  was  thus,  thus,  that 
he  would  disappear  in  a  few  days ;  and  first  the  plain, 
then  the  mountain,  and  then  plains  and  mountains 
and  rivers,  and  then  the  strait  and  the  ocean,  the 
infinite  spaces  that  cries  and  tears  cannot  overcome, 
would  step  between  her  and  that  forehead,  those 
eyes,  those  lips.  The  image  of  the  brutal  city  to 
which  she  was  going,  blackened  by  coal  and  bristling 
with  weapons,  filled  the  quiet  island.  The  crash  of 
sledge-hammers,  the  shriek  of  cranes,  the  panting  of 
engines,  the  immense  groan  of  iron,  drowned  the 
melody  of  spring.  And  in  contrast  to  each  of  those 
simple  things,  to  the  grass,  the  sands,  the  water,  the 


384  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

seaweed,  the  soft  feather  dropping  perhaps  from  the 
throat  of  a  song-bird,  there  appeared  streets,  invaded 
by  the  human  stream,  houses  with  their  thousand  de- 
formed eyes,  full  of  fevers  that  make  sleep  unknown, 
theatres  filled  with  the  breath  or  the  stupor  of  a 
crowd  that  has  relaxed  for  an  hour  the  tension  of  its 
will  and  fiercely  outstretched  in  the  war  of  lucre. 
And  she  saw  her  name  and  her  portrait  on  walls 
defiled  by  advertisements,  on  boards  carried  about 
by  stupefied  porters,  on  great  factory  bridges,  on  the 
doors  of  swift  vehicles,  high  and  low  and  everywhere. 

"  Here !  look !  The  branch  of  an  almond-tree. 
The  almond-tree  is  blossoming  in  the  convent  gar- 
den, in  the  second  cloister,  near  the  grotto  with 
the  sacred  pine-tree.     And  you  knew  it !  " 

Her  friend  was  hastening  to  her,  joyful  as  a  child, 
followed  by  the  Capuchin  friar,  who  was  holding  a 
little  bunch  of  thyme. 

"  Take  it !     See  what  a  marvel !  " 

Tremblin'gly  she  took  the  branch,  and  tears  dimmed 
her  eyes. 

"  You  knew  it !  " 

He  noticed  the  sudden  brightness  between  her  eye- 
lashes, something  tender  and  silvery,  —  a  shining  and 
trembling  moisture  which  made  the  white  of  her 
eyes  like  the  petals  of  a  flower.  Of  all  her  beloved 
person,  he  passionately  loved  the  delicate  marks  that 
went  from  the  corners  of  the  eyes  to  the  temples,  and 
the  small  dark  veins  which  made  the  eyelids  like 
violets,  and  the  undulation  of  the  cheeks,  and  the 
weary  chin,  and  all  that  could  not  flower  again,  all 
the  shadows  on  the  impassioned  face. 

"  Ah,  Father,"   she   said  with  a   merry  look,   re- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  385 

straining  her  sorrow,  "  will  not  Christ's  Poor  Man 
weep  in  heaven  for  this  torn  off  branch?" 

The  Father  smiled  with  sprightly  indulgence. 

"  This  good  gentleman,"  he  answered,  "  did  not 
give  me  time  to  say  a  word  when  he  saw  the  tree. 
He  already  had  the  branch  in  his  hand,  and  all  I 
could  say  was  *Amen.'  But  the  almond-tree  is 
rich." 

He  was  placid  and  affable,  with  a  crown  of  hair 
nearly  all  black  still  round  the  tonsure,  with  a  refined, 
olive  face,  with  two  large  tawny  eyes,  shining  as  clear 
as  topazes. 

"  Here  is  the  savoury  thyme,"  he  said,  offering  the 
herbs. 

They  heard  a  choir  of  young  voices  singing  a 
Response. 

"  They  are  the  novices ;  we  have  fifteen  of  them." 

And  he  accompanied  the  visitors  to  the  field  be- 
hind the  convent.  Standing  on  the  bank,  at  the  foot 
of  a  cypress-tree  that  had  been  destroyed  by  light- 
ning, the  Franciscan  pointed  to  the  fertile  islands, 
praised  their  fruitfulness,  enumerated  their  kinds  of 
fruit,  extolled  the  most  luscious  according  to  the 
various  seasons,  pointed  out  the  boats  sailing  to 
the  Rialto  with  the  new  crops. 

"  Be  praised  to  Thee,  O  Master,  for  our  Mother 
Earth,"  said  the  woman  with  the  blossoming  branch. 

The  friar,  sensitive  to  the  tenderness  of  that  feminine 
voice,  was  silent. 

Tall  cypress-trees  surrounded  the  pious  meadow; 
and  four  of  them, — the  oldest,  —  leafless,  sapless,  bore 
signs  of  lightning.  Their  tops  were  motionless,  —  the 
only  emerging  things  in  that  level   posture    of  the 

25 


386  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

fields  and  waters  that  stretched  on  a  line  with  the 
horizon.  Not  even  the  faintest  breeze  ruffled  the  in- 
finite mirror.  The  depths  full  of  seaweeds  were  trans- 
parent and  seemed  like  bright  treasures ;  the  marsh 
reeds  shone  like  rods  of  amber;  the  freshly  un- 
covered sands  had  the  changing  colours  of  mother- 
of-pearl  ;  the  very  mud  imitated  the  opaline  tender- 
ness of  the  medusae.  A  profound  enchantment  that 
was  like  rapture  filled  the  desert  with  joy.  The 
melody  of  winged  creatures  still  continued  from  in- 
visible places;  but  it,  too,  seemed  to  be  quieting 
down  at  last  into  the  holy  silence. 

"  At  this  time,  on  the  hills  of  Umbria,"  said  he 
who  had  robbed  the  almond-tree  in  the  cloister, 
"  every  olive-tree  has  at  its  feet,  like  a  cast-off  slough, 
a  bunch  of  its  cut  branches ;  and  it  seems  tenderer 
because  the  bunch  hides  the  roughness  of  the  crooked 
roots.  Saint  Francis  passes  in  mid-air  healing  with 
his  finger  the  pain  of  the  wounds  made  by  the  pruning 
knife."  ' 

The  friar  crossed  himself  and  took  his  leave. 

"  Praise  be  to  Jesus  Christ !  " 

The  guests  saw  him  moving  away  among  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  cypress-trees  on  the  meadow. 

"  He  is  in  peace,"  said  the  woman.  "  Does  it  not 
seem  to  you,  Stelio?  A  great  peace  was  on  his  face 
and  in  his  voice.     Look  at  his  step,   too." 

First  a  ray  of  sunshine,  then  a  ray  of  shadow, 
touched  his  tonsure  and  his  tunic. 

"  He  gave  me  a  splinter  of  the  pine-tree,"  said 
Stelio.  "  I  will  send  it  to  Sophia,  who  has  a  great 
devotion  for  the  Seraphic  Saint.  Here  it  is.  It  no 
longer  smells  of  resin.     Smell  it." 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  387 

For  Sophia's  sake  she  kissed  the  relic.  The  lips 
of  the  good  sister  would  be  laid  on  the  same  place 
where  hers  had  rested. 

"  Send  it." 

They  walked  in  silence  a  while  with  lowered  heads, 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  man  who  was  at  peace,  going 
towards  the  quay  between  the  rows  of  cypress-trees 
laden  with  berries. 

"  Do  you  not  want  to  see  her  again?"  la  Foscarina 
asked  her  friend  with  a  tremor  of  shyness. 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  And  your  mother?  " 

"  Yes ;  my  heart  goes  out  to  her  who  daily  expects 
me. 

"  And  you  would  not  like  to  go  back?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  back,  perhaps." 

"When?" 

"  I  do  not  know  yet,  but  I  long  to  see  my  mother 
and  Sophia.     I  desire  it  indeed  greatly,  Foscarina." 

"And  why  do  you  not  go?  What  keeps  you 
here?" 

He  took  the  hand  that  was  hanging  loosely  at 
her  side,  and  they  continued  their  walk.  As  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  sun  hghted  up  their  right  cheeks, 
they  saw  their  united  shadows  preceding  them  at  one 
level  on  the  grass. 

"  When  you  pictured  to  yourself  the  hills  of  Umbria 
a  moment  ago,"  said  the  woman,  "  perhaps  you  were 
thinking  of  the  hills  of  your  own  country.  That  figure 
of  the  pruned  olive-trees  was  not  a  new  one  to  me. 
I  remember  your  talking  to  me  one  day  of  the  prun- 
ing. ...  In  no  other  labour  can  the  peasant  acquire 
a  deeper  sense  of  the  dumb  life  that  is  in  the  tree. 


388  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

When  he  stands  in  front  of  the  apple  or  pear  or  peach 
tree  with  the  pruning  knife  and  scissors  that  should 
increase  their  strength  and  could  at  the  same  time 
cause  their  death,  the  spirit  of  divination  rises  in  him 
from  all  the  wisdom  acquired  in  his  communings  with 
earth  and  sky.  The  tree  is  then  at  its  most  delicate 
moment,  when  its  sensibility  re-awakens,  flowing  to 
the  buds  which  are  swollen  and  about  to  open.  Man 
with  his  cruel  knife  must  regulate  the  mysterious 
movements  of  the  sap.  The  tree  is  still  intact, 
ignorant  of  Hesiod  and  Virgil,  labouring  with  its 
blossom  and  its  fruit,  and  every  branch  in  the  air  is 
as  much  alive  as  an  artery  in  the  arm  of  the  pruner. 
Which  is  the  one  to  be  lopped  off?  Will  the  sap 
heal  the  wound?  .  .  .  Thus,  one  day  you  spoke  to 
me  of  your  orchard.  I  remember.  You  told  me 
that  all  the  cuts  should  be  turned  to  the  north  that 
the  sun  should  not  see  them." 

She  was  speaking  as  on  that  distant  November 
evening  when  the  young  man  had  come  to  her 
through  the  violent  wind,  panting  after  having  carried 
the  hero. 

He  smiled.  He  let  the  dear  hand  lead  him.  And 
he  drank  in  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoming  branch, 
very  like  the  smell  of  some  bitter  milk. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said.  "  And  Laimo  would  pre- 
pare the  ointment  of  Saint  Fiacre,  mixing  it  in  the 
mortar,  and  Sophia  would  bring  him  the  strong 
linen  to  bind  the  larger  wounds,  after  they  had  been 
dressed.  .  .  ." 

He  could  see  the  peasant  on  his  knees  mixing  cow- 
dung,  clay,  and  barley  husks  in  the  stone  mortar, 
according  to  the  rules  of  antique  wisdom. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  389 

"  But  in  ten  days,"  he  added,  "  the  whole  hill  seen 
from  the  sea  will  be  like  a  fresh,  rosy  cloud.  Sophia 
has  written  to  remind  me  of  it.  .  .  .  Has  she  ap- 
peared to  you  any  more?" 

"  She  is  with  us  now." 

"  She  is  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  sea, 
which  has  become  purple,  and  my  mother  is  with  her 
at  the  window,  and  she  is  saying,  '  Who  knows  i{ 
Stelio  may  not  be  in  that  sailing  boat  waiting  at  the 
mouth  of  the  river  for  the  coming  of  the  wind?  He 
promised  me  he  would  return  unexpectedly  by  sea,  in 
a  brig.'     And  her  heart  aches." 

"Ah,  why  do  you  disappoint  her?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  Fosca ;  I  can  be  away  for  months 
and  months,  and  feel  that  my  life  is  full.  But  then, 
an  hour  comes  when  nothing  in  the  world  seems  to 
me  sweeter  than  those  eyes ;  and  there  is  a  part  of 
myself  that  remains  inconsolable.  I  have  heard  the 
sailors  of  the  Tyrrhenean  Sea  call  the  Adriatic  the  Gulf 
of  Venice.  To-night  I  am  thinking  that  my  home  is 
on  the  Gulf,  and  that  seems  to  bring  it  nearer." 

They  were  at  the  landing.  They  turned  to  look 
once  more  at  the  island  of  Prayer  with  its  beseeching 
cypresses. 

"  Yonder  is  the  canal  of  the  Tre  Porti  that  leads  to 
the  open  sea,"  he  said,  homesick.  He  saw  himself 
on  the  deck  of  the  brig  in  sight  of  his  tamarisks  and 
myrtle-trees. 

They  went  on  board.  They  were  silent  for  a  long 
time.  Quietly,  meanwhile,  the  melody  descended 
on  the  archipelago.  As  the  light  from  the  sky  pene- 
trated the  waters,  so  the  song  from  the  sky  came  and 
,  rested  on  the  fields.     But  Burano  and  Torcello  ap- 


390  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

peared  like  two  broken  galleons  against  the  dazzling 
west,  and  the  clouds  were  ranging  themselves  in 
phalanxes,  down  towards  the  Dolomites, 

"  Now  that  the  scheme  of  the  work  is  finished,  all 
you  want  is  peace  for  your  work,"  said  the  woman, 
softly  continuing  her  persuasion,  while  her  soul  trem- 
bled in  her  breast.  "  Have  you  not  always  worked 
best  in  your  own  home?  In  no  other  place  will  you 
be  able  to  appease  the  anxiety  which  oppresses  you. 
I  know  it." 

He  said :  — 

"  It  is  true.  When  the  craving  for  glory  seizes  us, 
we  believe  that  the  conquest  of  art  resembles  the 
siege  of  a  stronghold,  and  that  noise  and  sound  ac- 
company the  bravery  of  the  assault.  But  it  is  only 
the  work  which  has  grown  in  the  austerity  of  silence 
that  is  of  any  value ;  only  the  work  done  with  slow 
and  indomitable  perseverance ;  work  done  in  hard, 
pure  solitude.  Nothing  is  of  any  value  but  the  com- 
plete surrender  of  spirit  and  flesh  to  the  Idea  which 
we  long  to  establish  among  men  as  a  commanding 
force  for  ever." 

"  Ah,  you  know  it." 

The  woman's  eyes  filled  with  tears  on  hearing  his 
smooth  words,  in  which  she  felt  all  the  depth  of  his 
manly  passion,  the  heroic  need  of  spiritual  dominion, 
the  firm  determination  to  surpass  himself  and  to 
force  his  destiny. 

"  You  know  it !  " 

And  she  felt  a  shudder  like  that  which  is  caused 
by  cruel  sights ;  and  in  the  face  of  that  living  will 
everything  else  seemed  vain,  and  the  other  tears  that 
had  blinded  her  when  he  had  offered  her  the  bios- 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  391 

soms  seemed  mean  and  effeminate  compared  with 
those  that  were  now  rushing  to  her  eyes,  and  were 
alone  worthy  to  be  drunk  in  by  her  friend. 

"  Well,  then,  go  back  to  your  sea,  to  your  own 
lands,  to  your  house.  Re-light  your  lamp  with  the 
oil  of  your  own  olives." 

His  lips  were  closed,  and  there  was  a  furrow 
between  his  eyelids. 

"  The  kind  sister  will  come  again  to  lay  a  blade  of 
grass  on  the  difficult  page." 

He  bent  his  brow  which  a  thought  was  oppressing. 

"  You  will  rest  by  talking  to  Sophia  at  the  window, 
and  perhaps  you  will  see  the  flocks  passing  again  on 
their  way  from  the  plains  to  the  mountains." 

The  sun  was  nearing  the  gigantic  acropolis  of  the 
Dolomites.  The  immecse  phalanx  of  clouds  was  dis- 
ordered as  if  by  a  battle,  shot  through  by  number- 
less beaming  arrows,  and  bathed  in  a  marvellous 
blood-like  crimson.  The  waters  extended  the  great 
battle  fought  round  the  impregnable  towers.  The 
melody  had  melted  into  the  shadow  of  the  already 
distant  islands.  The  whole  estuary  seemed  mantled 
in  gloomy  warlike  magnificence  as  if  myriads  of 
flags  were  bending  over  it,  a  silence  that  seemed  only 
waiting  for  a  flourish  of  imperial  trumpets. 

Softly,  after  a  long  pause,  he  said :  — 

"  And  if  she  were  to  question  me  about  the  fate  of 
the  virgin  who  reads  the  lamentation  of  Antigone  ?  " 

The  woman  started. 

"  And  if  she  were  to  question  me  about  the  love  of 
the  brother  who  searches  the  tombs  ?  " 

The  phantom  filled  the  woman  with  fear. 

**  And  if  the  page  on  which  she  lays  th#  blade  of 


392  THE   FLAME   OF  LIFE 

grass  were  the  one  where  the  trembling  soul  tells  Its 
desperate  hidden  fight  against  the  horrible  evil  ?  " 

The  woman  could  find  no  words  in  her  sudden  dis- 
may. Both  remained  silent,  gazing  at  the  sharp 
peaks  of  the  mountains  in  the  distance,  which  shone 
as  if  they  had  only  just  emerged  from  primordial 
fire.  The  sight  of  that  solitary,  eternal  grandeur 
brought  a  sense  of  strange  fatality  to  their  two  souls 
and  almost  an  uncertain  terror,  which  they  could 
neither  conquer  nor  scrutinise.  Venice  was  darkened 
by  the  masses  of  burning  porphyries ;  she  lay  on  the 
waters  all  wrapped  in  a  violet  veil ;  from  it  the  marble 
pillars  emerged,  carved  by  man  to  guard  the  bells 
that  give  the  signal  for  customary  prayer.  But  the 
customary  work  and  prayer  of  man,  the  old  city 
tired  with  having  lived  too  long,  its  mutilated  mar- 
bles and  its  worn-out  bells,  —  all  those  things  op- 
pressed by  the  weight  of  memories,  and  all  perishable, 
become  lowly  in  comparison  with  the  tremendous 
inflamed  Alps  that  lacerated  the  sky  with  their  thou- 
sand inflexible  points,  themselves  an  enormous,  soli- 
tary city,  waiting  perhaps  for  a  young  nation  of 
Titans. 

Abruptly,  after  the  long  silence,  Stelio  Effrena 
asked  the  woman :  — 

"And  you?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

The  bells  of  San  Marco  gave  the  signal  for  the 
Angelus,  and  the  powerful  roll  dilated  in  long  waves 
over  the  still  crimsoned  lagoon  which  they  were  leav- 
ing in  the  hands  of  shadow  and  death.  From  San 
Giorgio  Maggiore,  from  San  Giorgio  dei  Greci,  from 
San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  from  San  Giovanni  in 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  393 

Bragora,  from  San  Moise,  from  the  Salute,  from  the 
Redentore,  and  on  through  the  whole  domain  of  the 
Evangelists,  from  the  far  towers  of  the  Madonna  dell' 
Orto,  of  San  Giobbe,  of  Sant*  Andrea,  the  bronze 
voices  answered,  mingled  in  one  great  chorus  spread- 
ing on  the  quiet  gathering  of  stones  and  waters 
one  great  invisible  dome  of  metal  which  seemed  to 
communicate  by  its  vibrations  with  the  twinkling  of 
the  first  stars. 

Both  shivered  when  the  gondola  entered  the 
damp  of  the  dark  Rio,  passing  under  the  bridge 
that  looked  towards  the  island  of  San  Michele, 
passing  near  the  black  peate  putrefying  along  the 
corroded  walls.  From  the  nearest  belfries,  from  San 
Lazzaro,  from  San  Canciano,  from  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo,  from  Santa  Maria  dei  Miracoli,  from  Santo 
Maria  del  Pianto,  other  voices  answered.  And  the 
roll  above  their  heads  was  so  strong  that  they  seemed 
to  feel  its  vibration  in  the  very  roots  of  their  hair 
like  a  quiver  of  their  own  flesh. 

"  Is  it  you,  Daniele?  " 

It  seemed  to  Stelio  that  he  had  recognised  the 
figure  of  Daniele  Glauro  on  the  Fondamenta  Sanudo, 
near  the  door  of  his  house. 

"  Oh,  Stelio,  I  was  waiting  for  you !  "  cried  the 
agitated  voice,  in  the  storm  of  sound.  "  Richard 
Wagner  is  dead." 


The  world  seemed  to  have  lost  value. 

The  wandering  woman  armed  herself  with  her 
courage  and  went  on  preparing  her  viaticum.  From 
the  hero  lying  on  his  bier  a  great  inspiration  rose  to 


394  THE  FLAME   OF  LIFE 

all  noble  hearts.  She  knew  how  to  receive  it  ant^ 
convert  it  into  living  thoughts  and  actions. 

It  happened  that  her  friend  came  upon  her  while 
she  was  collecting  her  familiar  books,  the  small  things 
that  were  never  parted  from  her,  the  pictures  that  had 
over  her  a  power  of  enchantment  or  of  consolation. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  preparing  to  start." 

She  saw  his  face  change,  but  did  not  hesitate. 

"  Where  are  you  going?" 

"  Far  away.     I  am  crossing  the  Atlantic." 

He  became  a  shade  paler.  And  at  once  he  doubted ; 
thought  that  perhaps  she  was  not  speaking  the  truth ; 
that  perhaps  she  was  only  sounding  him ;  that  the 
resolve  was  not  a  fixed  one,  and  that  she  was  only 
expecting  to  be  urged  to  stay. 

His  unexpected  disappointment  on  the  shores  of 
Murano  had  left  its  traces  on  his  heart. 

"  Have  you  decided  on  it,  then,  all  of  a  sudden?" 

She  was  simple,  sure,  and  ready. 

"  Not  all  of  a  sudden,"  she  answered.  "  My  idleness 
has  been  lasting  too  long,  and  I  have  the  burden  of 
all  my  people  upon  me.  While  I  wait  for  the  Theatre 
of  Apollo  to  be  opened  and  for  'The  Victory  of  Man ' 
to  be  ready,  I  shall  go  and  take  my  leave  of  the  Bar- 
barians. I  will  work  for  the  great  undertaking.  We 
will  need  a  great  deal  of  gold  to  build  up  again  the 
treasures  of  Mycene !  And  everything  connected 
with  your  work  should  have  the  aspect  of  an  unusual 
magnificence.  I  do  not  want  the  mask  of  Cassandra 
to  be  of  some  base  metal.  .  .  .  And  what  I  espe- 
cially want,  is  to  satisfy  your  desire :  that  the  people 
shall  have  free  access  to  the   Theatre  for  the  first 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  395 

three  days,  and  always  after  that,  on  one  day  in  the 
week.  This  faith  helps  me  to  leave  you.  Time 
flies.  Every  one  must  be  at  his  place,  in  full  posses- 
sion of  all  his  powers,  when  the  time  comes.  I  will 
not  fail  you.  I  hope  you  will  be  satisfied  with  your 
friend.  I  am  going  to  work;  and  certainly  I  find 
it  more  difficult  this  once  than  at  other  times.  But 
you,  but  you,  my  poor  child,  what  a  burden  you 
have  to  bear !  What  an  effort  we  are  asking  of  you  ! 
What  great  things  we  expect  from  you !  Ah,  you 
know  it!  .  .  ." 

She  had  begun  bravely,  in  a  tone  that  at  times  had 
seemed  almost  cheerful,  trying  to  appear  what  she 
was  meant  to  be  above  all,  —  a  good  and  faithful  in- 
strument at  the  service  of  genius;  a  virile,  willing 
companion.  But  some  wave  of  repressed  emotion, 
escaping,  would  come  into  her  throat  and  choke  her 
voice.  Her  pauses  became  longer,  and  her  hand 
became  uncertain  in  its  wandering  among  her  books 
and  relics. 

"  May  all  things  be  ever  propitious  to  your  work  ! 
This  only  matters ;  all  the  rest  is  nothing.  Let  us 
keep  our  hearts  on  high !  " 

She  shook  back  her  head  with  its  two  wild  wings, 
and  held  out  her  two  hands  to  her  friend.  He  pressed 
them,  pale  and  serious.  In  her  dear  eyes  that  were 
like  living  springs  of  water  he  caught  a  gleam  of  the 
same  flash  of  beauty  that  had  dazzled  him  one  night 
in  the  room  where  the  logs  roared,  and  he  had  heard 
the  unfolding  of  the  two  splendid  melodies. 

"  I  love  you  and  believe  in  you,"  he  said;  "  I  will 
not  fail  you,  and  you  will  not  fail  me.  Something 
proceeds  from  us  that  will  be  stronger  than  life." 


396  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

She  said :  — 

"  A  melancholy." 

The  familiar  books  lay  on  the  table  before  her 
with  their  dogs'  ears  and  marked  margins,  with  some 
leaves,  a  flower,  a  blade  of  grass  between  page  and 
page,  with  their  landmarks  of  the  sorrows  which 
had  asked  and  obtained  from  them  consolations  of 
enlightenment  or  oblivion.  All  the  small  beloved 
objects  were  scattered  before  her,  strange,  various, 
and  nearly  all  valueless  things,  —  a  doll's  foot,  a  votive 
offering  in  the  shape  of  a  silver  heart,  a  small  ivory 
compass,  a  dialless  watch,  a  little  iron  lantern,  an  odd 
earring,  a  flint,  a  key,  a  seal,  other  refuse ;  but  all 
were  consecrated  by  some  memory,  animated  by 
some  superstitious  belief,  touched  by  the  finger  of 
love  or  death,  relics  that  could  only  speak  to  one  soul, 
and  that  spoke  to  it  of  tenderness  and  cruelty,  of  war 
and  peace,  of  hope  and  dejection.  Before  her,  too, 
were  images  suggesting  thought,  and  disposing  for 
reflection, — figures  to  which  artists  had  intrusted  a 
secret  confession,  mazes  of  signs  in  which  they  had 
enclosed  an  enigma,  simple  lines  that  imparted  peace 
like  a  glimpse  of  the  horizon,  profound  allegories, 
veiling  some  truth  that,  like  the  sun,  could  not  be 
gazed   on  by  mortal   eyes. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  to  her  friend,  pointing  to  an  old 
engraving,  "  you  know  it  well." 

They  both  knew  it  well,  yet  together  they  bent 
down  to  examine  it  again,  and  it  seemed  to  them  as 
new  as  music  which,  whenever  questioned,  gives 
some  different  answer.  It  came  from  the  hand  of 
Albert  Diirer. 

The  great  Angel  of  Earth  with  the  eagle's  wings, 


THE  EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  397 

the  sleepless  spirit  crowned  with  patience,  sat  on  the 
bare  stone  with  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  his  cheek  sup- 
ported on  his  hand,  a  book  on  his  other  knee,  and  a 
compass  in  his  other  hand.  At  his  feet,  coiled  round 
like  a  serpent,  lay  the  faithful  greyhound,  the  dog 
which  has  hunted  side  by  side  with  man  from  the 
very  dawn  of  time.  By  his  side,  almost  crouching 
on  the  edge  of  a  millstone,  like  a  bird,  slept  a  child, 
sad  already,  holding  the  style  and  the  tablet  with 
which  to  write  down  the  first  word  of  his  science. 
All  round  him  were  scattered  the  instruments  of  the 
works  of  man,  and  on  his  watchful  head,  near  the 
summit  of  a  wing,  the  silent  sands  of  time  ran  through 
their  hourglass;  and  in  the  background  there  was 
the  sea  with  its  gulfs  and  its  ports  and  its  lighthouses, 
the  calm,  unconquerable  sea  over  which,  when  the 
sun  had  set  in  its  rainbow  glory,  the  twilight  bat 
would  fly  with  the  revealing  word  written  on  its 
membrane.  And  those  ports  and  those  lighthouses 
and  those  cities  were  the  work  of  the  sleepless  spirit 
crowned  with  patience.  He  had  broken  the  stone 
for  the  towers,  cut  down  the  pine-tree  for  the  ships, 
tempered  the  iron  for  every  struggle.  He  himself 
had  laid  on  Time  the  instrument  that  measures  it. 
Seated  not  to  rest,  but  to  meditate  on  some  new  work 
to  be  accomplished,  he  fixed  on  life  the  powerful  eyes 
shining  with  the  free  light  of  the  sun.  Silence  rose  up 
to  him  from  every  surrounding  form  but  one.  And 
that  only  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  roaring  fire  in 
the  furnace,  under  the  crucible  where  sublimated 
matter  would  presently  generate  some  new  force  that 
would  serve  to  cure  some  evil,  or  to  teach  some 
law.     And  this  was  the  answer  of  the  great  Angel  of 


398  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

Earth  with  the  eagle's  wings  from  whose  steel-bound 
flank  hung  the  keys  that  open  and  shut,  to  those  who 
were  questioning  him :  "  The  sun  sets.  The  light 
that  is  born  in  the  heavens  dies  in  the  heavens,  and 
each  day  is  ignorant  of  the  light  of  another  day.  But 
the  night  is  one,  and  its  shadow  is  on  every  counten- 
ance, and  its  blindness  is  in  every  eye  except  on  the 
countenance  and  in  the  eyes  of  him  who  feeds  his  fire 
in  order  to  illumine  his  strength.  I  know  that  the  liv- 
ing are  as  the  dead,  the  waking  as  the  sleeping,  the 
young  as  the  old,  because  the  change  of  the  one 
brings  forth  the  other,  and  each  change  has  pain  and 
joy  for  equal  companions.  I  know  that  the  harmony 
of  the  Universe  is  made  of  discords  as  in  the  lyre  and 
in  the  bow.  I  know  that  I  am  and  that  I  am  not, 
and  that  one  alone  is  the  way,  high  or  low.  I  know 
the  putrid  odour  and  the  numberless  infections  that 
go  hand  in  hand  with  human  nature.  And  yet,  be- 
yond my  knowledge,  I  continue  the  accomplishment 
of  my  manifest  or  secret  works.  I  see  some  perish 
while  I  still  last,  I  see  others  that  seem  as  if  they 
must  last  eternally  beautiful  and  exempt  from  all 
miseries,  no  longer  mine,  although  born  from  my  deep- 
est evils.  I  see  all  things  changing  before  fire  as 
fortunes  do  before  gold.  Only  one  thing  is  constant, 
and  that  thing  is  my  courage.  I  can  never  sit  down, 
except  to  rise  again." 

The  young  man  passed  his  arm  round  his  friend's 
waist;  and  together,  speechless,  they  went  to  the 
window. 

They  saw  the  far,  far  distant  sky,  the  trees,  the 
cupolas,  the  towers,  the  end  of  the  lagoon  over  which 
the  face  of  twilight  was  bending,  and  the  Euganean 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  399 

hills  as  quiet  and  blue  as  if  they  were  the  wings  of 
earth  folded  in  the  repose  of  evening. 

They  turned,  facing  each  other,  looking  into  the 
depths  of  each  other's  eyes. 

Then  they  kissed  each  other,  as  if  sealing  an 
unspoken  compact. 


The  world  seemed  to  have  lost  value. 

Stelio  Effrena  had  asked  the  widow  of  Richard 
Wagner  for  the  two  young  Italians  who  had  carried 
the  unconscious  hero  from  the  boat  to  the  shore  one 
November  night,  and  four  of  their  companions,  to  be 
granted  the  honour  of  carrying  the  bier  from  the 
death-chamber  to  the  boat  and  from  the  boat  to  the 
carriage.     She  had  granted  it. 

It  was  the  sixteenth  of  February.  It  was  one 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Stelio  Effrena,  Daniele 
Glauro,  Francesco  de  Lizo,  Baldassare  Stampa,  Fabio 
Molza,  and  Antimo  della  Bella  were  waiting  in  the 
hall  of  the  palace.  The  latter  had  arrived  from 
Rome  after  having  obtained  permission  to  bring 
with  him  two  artisans  engaged  in  the  construction 
of  the  Theatre  of  Apollo,  that  they  might  carry 
at  the  funeral  bunches  of  laurels  gathered  on  the 
Janiculum. 

Speechless,  without  even  looking  at  each  other, 
they  waited,  each  overcome  by  the  beating  of  his 
own  heart.  Nothing  was  heard  except  the  feeble 
splash  of  the  water  on  the  steps  of  the  great  door 
where  on  the  candelabra  at  the  doorposts  two  words 
were  engraved,  Domus  Pads. 

The  boatman,  who  had  been  dear  to  the  hero,  came 


40O  THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 

down  and  called  them.  His  eyes,  in  his  faithful, 
manly  facfe,  were  burnt  by  tears. 

Stelio  Effrena  went  first ;  his  companions  followed 
him.  When  they  had  ascended  the  staircase,  they 
entered  a  low  half-dark  room,  full  of  a  sad  odour  of 
flowers  and  perfume.  They  waited  a  few  seconds. 
The  other  door  opened.  One  by  one  they  entered 
the  adjoining  room ;  one  by  one  they  turned  pale. 

The  body  was  there,  shut  in  its  crystal  coffin,  and 
standing  beside  it  was  the  woman  with  the  face  of 
snow.  The  second  coffin  of  burnished  metal  shone 
open  on  the  pavement. 

The  six  bearers  stood  before  the  body  waiting  for 
the  signal.  The  silence  was  very  great,  and  none 
stirred ;  but  an  impetuous  sorrow  had  forced  itself 
into  their  souls  like  a  gust  of  wind,  and  was  shaking 
them  to  their  deepest  roots. 

All  were  gazing  fixedly  at  the  chosen  one  of  Life 
and  Death  ;  an  infinite  smile  illumined  the  face  of  the 
prostrate  hero  —  a  smile  as  distant  and  infinite  as 
the  rainbow  of  a  glacier,  as  the  gleam  of  the  sea,  as 
the  halo  of  a  star.  They  could  not  bear  to  see  it, 
but  their  hearts,  with  a  wondering  fear  that  made 
them  reUgious,  felt  as  if  they  were  receiving  the  reve- 
lation of  a  divine  secret. 

The  woman  with  the  face  of  snow  moved  slightly, 
yet  remained  in  the  same  attitude,  rigid  as  a  monument. 

Then  the  six  companions  moved  towards  the  bier, 
held  out  their  arms,  gathered  up  their  strength. 
Stelio  Effrena  had  his  place  at  the  head  and  Daniele 
Glauro  at  the  foot,  as  on  that  other  day.  They  raised 
their  burden  at  one  effort,  at  a  low  command  from 
their  leader.      A  glamour  struck  their  eyes  as  if  a 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SILENCE  401 

belt  of  sun  had  crossed  the  glass.  Baldassare  Stampa 
broke  into  sobs.  One  same  knot  gripped  all  their 
throats.  The  coffin  wavered,  then  was  lowered  again, 
entered  its  metal  wrapper  as  in  an  armour. 

The  six  companions  remained  prostrate  all  round, 
hesitating  before  closing  the  cover,  fascinated  by  that 
infinite  smile.  On  hearing  a  slight  rustle,  Stelio 
Effrena  looked  up.  He  saw  the  face  of  snow  bend- 
ing over  the  body,  like  a  superhuman  apparition  of 
love-  and  sorrow.  That  second  was  like  all  eternity. 
The  woman  disappeared. 

When  the  coffin  was  closed,  they  lifted  up  its  in- 
creased weight ;  they  bore  it  slowly  out  of  the  room 
and  down  the  staircase.  Wrapped  in  a  kind  of  sub- 
lime anguish,  they  could  see  their  fraternal  faces  re- 
flected in  the  metal  case. 

The  funeral  boat  awaited  them  at  the  door.  The 
pall  was  drawn  over  the  coffin.  The  six  companions 
waited  with  bared  heads  for  the  family  to  come  down. 
It  came,  gathered  close  together.  The  widow  passed 
veiled.  But  the  splendour  of  her  countenance  was 
in  their  memories  for  ever. 

The  procession  was  brief:  the  funeral  boat  went 
first;  the  widow  followed  with  her  dear  ones,  then 
the  group  of  young  men.  The  sky  was  encumbered 
with  clouds,  above  the  wide  pathway  of  stone  and 
water.  The  great  silence  was  worthy  of  Him  who 
had  transformed  the  forces  of  the  Universe  for  man's 
worship  into  infinite  song. 

A  flock  of  pigeons,  starting  from  the  marbles  of 
the  Scalsi,  flew  with  a  quivering  flash  over  the  bier 
and  across  the  canal,  wreathing  the  cupola  of  San 
Simeone. 

26 


402  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

At  the  landing  a  silent  group  of  devoted  friends 
was  waiting.  The  large  wreaths  perfumed  the  grey 
air;  they  could  hear  the  water  beating  under  the 
curved  prows.  The  six  companions  lifted  the  coffin 
from  the  boat  and  carried  it  on  their  shoulders  to 
the  compartment  that  was  waiting  for  it  in  the 
station.  The  friends  drew  near  and  laid  their  wreaths 
on  the  pall.     No  word  was  spoken. 

The  two  artisans  drew  near  with  their  bunches  of 
laurels  gathered  on  the  Janiculum. 

They  were  vigorous,  powerful  men,  chosen  among 
the  strongest  and -finest,  and  they  seemed  to  be 
shaped  in  the  ancient  mould  of  the  Roman  race. 
They  were  quiet  and  grave,  with  all  the  wild  liberty 
of  the  Agro  in  their  bloodshot  eyes.  Their  strong 
outlines,  narrow  forehead,  low  crisp  hair,  firm  jaws 
and  bull-like  neck,  recalled  the  profile  of  some  of 
the  Consuls  of  old.  Their  attitude,  exempt  from  any 
servile  obsequiousness,  made  them  worthy  of  their 
mission. 

The  six  companions  in  turn,  equal  now  in  their 
fervour,  strewed  branches  from  the  bunches  of  laurel 
over  the  hero's  coffin. 

Noble  indeed  were  those  Latin  laurels,  cut  from 
the  shrubs  of  the  hill  where,  in  the  days  of  remote 
antiquity,  the  eagles  descended  with  their  prophe- 
cies, where  in  recent  though  still  fabulous  times  a 
stream  of  blood  has  been  shed  for  the  beauty  of 
Italy  by  the  soldiers  of  the  Liberator.  They  were 
straight,  dark  robust  branches ;  the  leaves  were 
hard,  strongly  veined,  with  sharp  margins,  green 
as  the  bronze  of  fountains,  rich  with  the  aroma  of 
triumph. 


THE   EMPIRE   OF   SILENCE  403 

And  they  travelled  towards  the  Bavarian  hill  still 
slumbering  under  its  frost,  while  their  noble  trunks 
were  already  budding  in  the  light  of  Rome  to  the 
murmur  of  hidden  springs. 

SETTIGNANO   DI   DESIDERIO  : 
TUll  DI   FEBRUARY,   MOCCC. 


(By  Eleanor  H.  Porter 

Author  of  "  Miss  Billy,"  "  Miss  Billy's  Decision,"  etc. 


1 2 mo,  cloth  decoralioe,  illustrated,  ntt  $IJi5  ;  postpaid  $1.40 


"  Enter  Pollyanna!  She  is  the  daintiest,  dearest,  most 
irresistible  maid  you  have  met  in  all  your  joumeyings  through 
Bookland.  And  you  forget  she  is  a  story  girl,  for  Pollyanna 
is  so  real  that  after  your  first  introduction  you  will  feel  the 
inner  circle  of  your  friends  has  admitted  a  new  member.  A 
brave,  winsome,  modern  American  girl,  Pollyarma  walks  into 
print  to  take  her  place  in  the  hearts  of  all  members  of  the 
family." 


Of  "  Miss  Billy  "  the  critics  have  written  as  follows: 

"  To  say  of  any  story  that  it  makes  the  reader's  heart  feel  warm  and 
happy  is  to  pay  it  praise  of  sorts,  undoubtedly.  Well,  that's  the  very  praise 
one  gives  '  Miss  Billy.'  ''  — Edwin  L.  Shuman  in  the  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  The  story  is  delightful  and  as  for  Billy  herself  —  she's  all  right!  "  — 
Philadelphia  Press. 

"  There  is  a  fine  humor  in  the  book,  some  good  revelation  of  character 
and  plenty  of  romance  of  the  most  unusual  order."  —  The  Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

"  There  is  something  altogether  fascinating  about  '  Miss  Billy,'  some 
inexplicable  feminine  characteristic  that  seems  to  demand  the  individual 
attention  of  the  reader  from  the  moment  we  open  the  book  until  we  reluc- 
tantly turn  the  last  page."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  book  is  a  wholesome  story,  as  fresh  in  tone  as  it  is  graceful  in  ex- 

/)ression,  and  one  may  predict  for  it  a  wide  audience."  — Phtladeiphia  Pub- 
ic  Ledger. 

"  Miss  Billy  is  so  carefree,  so  original  and  charming,  that  she  lives  in  the 

reader's  memory  long  after  the  book  has  been  laid  aside."  —  Boston  Globe. 

"  You  cannot  help  but  love  dear  '  Billy;  '  she  is  winsome  and  attractive 

and  you  will  be  only  too  glad  to  introduce  her  to  your  friends."  —  Brooklyn 

Eagle. 


GOLDEN    ROAD 

Sy  L.  M.  Montgomery  3^ 

Author  of ' '  Anne  of  Green  Gables,  "  "  Anne  of  Avonlea, 
"Chronicles  of  Avonlea,  "  "  The  Story  Girl,  " 
' '  Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard, ' '  etc. 

1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  with  frontispiece  in  full  color,  from  a 
painting  b^  George  Gibbs.     ^et  $  1 .  25  ;  postpaid  $1 .40 

Undek  the  guidance  of  Sara  Stanley,  that  fascinating 
"weaver  of  dream  stories,"  the  happy,  fun-loving  group 
introduced  by  Miss  Montgomery,  travel  down  "the  golden 
road"  to  the  parting  of  ways  in.  this  new  story.  Old 
friendships  are  renewed  with  the  simple  folk  of  Prince 
Edward  Islanc*  with  its  orchard-embowered  homes  and 
fertile  meadows  and  groves  of  spruce.  The  adventurings 
of  tb=*  King  family,  as  chronicled  in  a  daily  newspaper, 
whic-.  is  aided  and  abetted  by  the  heathen  Peter,  with  its 
headline  features  of  the  long-expected  romance  which  enters 
into  the  life  of  pretty  Aunt  Olivia,  the  return  of  a  prodigal, 
which  strangely  enough  causes  temporary  anguish  instead  of 
joy  toone  childish  heart,  and  what  happens  to  the  Awkward 
Man,  will  give  delighb  for  many  a  day  to  all  members  of  the 
family,  young  and  old. 

Misi,  Montgomery  again  proves  that  she  is  a  distinct  aqui- 
sition  to  American  literature  and  entitled  to  a  place  of  honor 
as  the  writer  of  stories  which  "uplift  the  spirit  and  drive 
the  pessimist  into  bankruptcy." 


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